I cannot marry a poet,
who will worship the ground of his ink,
getting captivated through each page,
forming supremacy over it,
more than a beautiful part of my heart,
neither sweet wet kisses planted,
on each tiny part of his body
His ink will be jealous of me,
that I'm taking it spot in his heart,
even his deepest secrets,
get recognized by turn of each page,
before reaching these ear drums of mine,
like a tabloid chronicle that missed a deadline
I cannot marry a poet,
who will not allow me,
to touch his pen,
neither give me a green light to drown,
on the authored pages of his journal.