Writing poem is like,
Pouring out your heart in rhyme form.

Make rhyming strike,
And not regular free form a social norm.

Birdlike, not childlike,
Respect poetry, it's not cuss but an art form.

He was born in 1924.
The month was November.
And the date was 20.

He passed away in 1991.
The month was September.
And the date was 25.

I couldn't consciously listen to him.
I missed out on a grandpa.
I could've learnt so much.

He also taught Sänskřŧäm.

Until I am alive,
In my heart you will thrive.

You there,
I love you.
You are so sweet,
I admire you.
You are so sharp,
I like you.
You look less cute now,
But I bet you were the cutest child.
I love talking to myself,
This was about the kid in me.

Love is life.
Love is eternal.
Love is forever.

So what if the candidates of my love keep changing?
I am constant and truly love myself.

One day I shall be a little less lonely.