Poems

                                Poems
         

            

Am I writing this poem?
Or is it writing me?
Which is what
And what leads me to it
At times I fail to see...

But either way
It seems to me...
That once I write 
I own it no more.
It takes its form and breathes its unique intensity,
That may 
then be endowed
by a kind reader to me!

What remains of me then?
I'd be like one of those
toymakers
Who'd collect the rags and scraps of metal
To make a toy that's only worth
A few moments of whimsical childhood 
Then broomed away 
to be left in misery...

For even these lines of mine
May rest in a crumpled paper
Thrown in a box that labels its worthlessness...

But,even then am I
Obliged to write.
For,I needn't be aware but believe 
that this poem writes me well...
Way better than I have written it or any other.

For it's not just the words on the paper that I see,
But a transparent medium that allows me
A glimpse of myself!
And through it,
I do see and can breathe in
an essence of my reality!

But here's the sad truth,
and it hurts me to tell...
This poem does perish
once it has written itself,
and plucked a few buds of life for me!
As for me,
I callously allow it to rest in my old diary...
Waiting for a reader to come my way,
And share with it some meaning
That might bring it back to me...