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Loud Rain

The rain is loud now, As if a giant feet arises from the clouds To step on the river under the bridge of my heart And disturb it in such a way That the sails of ships bend, And the water touches the bridge from below, Tickling it to sorrow… The rain is loud now, But actually, it has always been like this. You were there once, And I never felt it. But now, All there is Is this sorrow That tickles me from inside, As if it wants me to laugh, Yet doesn’t let me At the same time…
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On poetry

 I can write poetry

Because I am baffled by my thoughts,

Like a child

Baffled on seeing the moon in daylight

For the first time.

I can write poetry

When a topic is given.

But it would be as fake

As a conversation with a friend

When my parents are around.

I can write poetry

Only thinking of myself;

Thinking how it would free me

From pain,

From angst,

From too much happiness

That makes me awkward.

I can write poetry,

And I will write poetry

Because it is a mirror for my soul to look into,

To make sure it is in right shape.

Poetry

Is no escape.

It is looking at our shattered lives

And writing it down

For all to see.

Poetry

Is terrifying,

Because people

Look into the well of your soul

And drink water from it,

Expecting it

To never go dry.


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