poetry and a poets life

We write
To breathe
To live
To bleed
To vent
But still we die daily ...
We share
Our pain
Our joy
Our thoughts
Our life
But still
The ache is there....

We weave verse about
Rain
Flowers
Dewdrops
Moon & stars
Just to keep ourselves sane ....

we expose our soul
Our heart bleeds
Words are weaved
Into verse & our
scar is revealed ....

Our elusive quality
Is revealed in words
Slowly we know
Ourselves much better
We start listening to
Our soul through
Words we write ...

We keep writing
We keep ripping
Our heart apart
In search of the
Golden metaphor
Lost somewhere in words ...

Some time our
Dormant rush
Of pain is revealed
In verse sometime
Bound fury for
Something bothering us ...

Bound by words
Tangled in shadow
Of memory we use
Our mind as a
Blank canvas &
Keep weaving poetry ....

Call it memory curse
Or painful presence
Of someone in
Our life we write
& write till we die....

theres no end
To this once
You have started writing
Our life becomes
Poetry & daily we keep
Sharing page of life
From it....

So be anything
But a poet
Its a difficult
Life to lead
You can't keep
It all inside & if
You say it all
Everyone knows
Your pain ..