will I live as chapters of the book
or
a rhythmic poem of a lost poet ?

To untangle my thoughts,
I must write,
sparing a minute of heaven for my mind

To hear my heart,
I must rhythm to its beat,
to know the essence of its fluttering

So I must impress no man,
dead or live
Enforce myself to perfection,
where I may die

To write is to know the whispers,
that live from a mile
So I must write to feel alive
not for a name
but for me to reside

loneliness pierces like a needle,
sewing your soul
when I undo it ,
it gets hollow

From a shelf ,took a book to flip
intrigued of how people write so much,
believed can never be done so easy

Three years later ,I wrote
fear,friendship,home and hope-
I ended with words,
then used mother tongue for pen to flow

To the girl from three years
a dreamer, I recall
Today stands a poet beside the shelf,
wondering how people write so little
Hundreds of stories burn within the soul,
but the words do end , but tale must go on

I burned all the pages about-
making my loved ones wonder,
where I changed.
Because they never got to read the part
where I played guilty and you blamed

The city feels unknown,
like I have never known.
I dance with ghosts in this chaos
while swirling,twirling all around .
The people here don’t care for ghosts,
that’s why they feel so lost.
I feel like a stranger here ,
as if I never belonged
Maybe my soul rests at old times ,
where the poets ,spirits ,antiques relied.
I dance while playing poetry ,
cry within this history.
But the time makes me want to know ,
why the poets feel so lost ?