Thoughts spring up and swirl
Triggering a chain
Proliferating inside
Causing chaos and clutter
They knock with fervor
To break free
From the locked brainbox
Waiting to take form
Thoughts spring up and swirl
Triggering a chain
Proliferating inside
Causing chaos and clutter
They knock with fervor
To break free
From the locked brainbox
Waiting to take form
The first creative piece that I ever wrote as a child was a poem. There is something magical about poetry. Even a single line can evoke several emotions within the reader. Poetry is profound and gentle, structured and abstract, meticulous and carefree, broken and whole. It is everywhere, within us and around us.
On the occasion of World Poetry Day, here is my ode to poetry.
No! I am not a poet.
Who am I?
Is this a question
Or a discovery
Maybe, a mirage
Sometimes, I see myself
In the vibrant butterflies
Flying with buoyance
Devouring the sweet nectar
The aureate sunbeams percolate through my pores,
Unlocking my shut eyes as the wonted dawn beckons;
The quivering and weary lashes grapple and stutter,
As they endeavour to make way for vision in the dungeon.
With a swarm of ideas in my head,
I perch on the sofa and begin my tread.
I think, I write, I think and I erase,
Only to involuntarily find myself staring into blank space.