Poem by a Poet

I write not to impress,

But to suppress.

Suppress my enigmatic flow of emotions,

Weaving them in the sheets of paper.

The papers absorb what I feel,

It doesn’t judge me,

It doesn’t betray me,

I write what I feel,

At times I write what you feel,

Because everything is writable

As long as it is imaginable,

My imagination wanders in far away lands,

Where there is only sand,

It has no flowers nor a single tree,

But it sets my soul free,

I am free to think,

I am free to blink,

My pen is my magic wand,

It’s ink coming from my heart’s pond,

The lines flow and rise,

With no bribe nor any price.

I express sorrows,

I express joy,

Both come from me,

As I don’t differentiate my despair from my glee.

Any plain moment,

Has the potentiality of becoming a line,

A line which will bloom it’s significance,

A line which will be read by many,

And will receive appreciations and criticism if any.