Thursday, 26 July 2012


Poems are like plants
Soak them with sunshine
For a time, before they grew
Hard, cracked, sickly sweet
There is no true joy in
one who has yet to taste the rain
to soak their soil
Softening the heart
Before they reach
For a dream so burning
Hot it destroys me
Poems in their childhood grow
Without rhyme or rhythm or beat
Straggly, teetering unstably
Before loving hands cut
Excesses to reveal
A rose beneath the leaf

Poetry is a beautiful thing that grows on the windowsill of our subconscious . But the sad truth of it is that plants under changes of circumstance wither and die. In the same way the poems that seem to pump in your veins that make you think I know exactly what you mean , that drive you to tears, yes even the most powerful poem one day will mean very little to you so much so that you will tread unknowingly on what to you is dirt.So unless we view the world as poetry, poetry will be forgotten due the grueling nature of the world.
As for those who ask , the answer is -We do not write poetry , it writes itself

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