Must I really write
To feel complete?
Must I really drop my thoughts
and not compete?
Why should this flow
Stop me on my tracks?
Why must the lyrical
Tease me till I crack?
It’s as though a torrent inside
Waits to break free
As soon as I see blank spaces
I’m issued a decree
A word’s not really a word then
It becomes a brush
With which I can paint
The song of a thrush
And the moment becomes beautiful
More than I can describe
All I want to do is
Be nature’s scribe
Then there’s a dizzy spinning
A quick blood rush
And I never want to stop
Though my mind goes ‘Shush!’
And then sometimes, my heart,
It knows this is the end
And the flow says
‘Goodbye! Later, my friend’
Sometimes I write poems
To figure things out
At other times
The poetess just calls out
And when I read to myself
The songs that I wrote
There’s a funny feeling
At the base of my throat!
Sometimes my heart
Just wants to be heard
At other times it’s inspired
by ‘the song of the bird’
Everytime, I think
Can’t do this anymore
The ‘One’ inside says
“Here’s another one, and then some more!”
“So when does it stop?”, I say,
“Well, I hope never!”, says the wise one,
“It’s a gift”
“It’ll stay”
Till then I guess I must write
To honour the call
And hopefully to some
This verse will enthrall!
