"What do you write? Poetry?" asked the teacher,
Impatiently.
And he continued-"Why ain't you trying anything else?"
Well, I was baffled, and I thought-" I write,
Poetry, Yes it doesn't sell."
"I know that"-That's what I said.
For a moment he glared at my hands
and looked around for something more,
He was staring at the broken walls and the memories,
of vicissitudes, which were scattered all over the floor.
He resumed again with an essence of pride,
acquired in taste- "what else do you do?
Don't you like playing games?
Boys of your age, go the field and takes up a batter,
with bowling techniques..."
I was baffled again, thinking to myself-
"More Poetry? Please?"
But I was silent on my lips, as my thoughts were shy,
I told to the teacher-"Yeah Cricket, I might try."
He lost the art of conversing in a rhyme-
And he exclaimed, dolefully-"Try Poetry, maybe another time."
And all I was but thinking was about this thought,
I know I don't sell propagandas which might seem to be hot.
And, he left the chair, the class was but over,
I thought "to make an attempt to creativity,
Which is both acceptable and sober?"
And Like all other days, the birds were all chirping,
The engines were roaring, and the sky as casting the bluest shade,
But, you see,
I write poetry which kisses the butter with a blessed blade.
I write poetry, I try to do so,
Scripts of screaming tales which you might not even know.
