A tiny poet

Once I ran toward my father to show him my published poem

There was mounted excitement within me.

I had an expectation that my father would applaud my achievement 

He would embrace me showering his commendation. 

I called my father with immense happiness and showed him that tiny poem

And I was waiting for his accolades,

But within a fraction of a second everything took a reverse turn.

He did not even pay a little attention to that which encapsulated my emotions. 

He told me what you would do with that mere poem,

Who will recognise you? Who will felicitate you? Who will bear your expenditure? 

Without money, without a job, without status, this poem is a mere reflection of your immature thought

Spontaneously my heart was shattered and all excitement mingled with the air.

That words effortlessly drew tears from my eyes, 

His sneers and demeaning remarks kept ringing near my ears.

I questioned to my weary heart, I frequently asked to my stoic face,

Does creativity always demand money? 

Should man do that which can give him money? 

Does creativity carry any value for the creator? 

These questions had made me befuddled, 

I could not think of anything.

I was standing being tongue-tied.

At that time a gush of wind suddenly put a stop sign to my all imagination

And the tiny poet died within me on that day.