Why do I write poetry?

Why do I?

I really don’t know:

But –

Can anyone ever express

how romantic the rains are?

Or how it feels

when two lovers get drenched in the rain for hours,

and not care about a probable paracetamol later?

Can anyone feel,

and not hear the subtle sounds

of rain pelting on the supine tin roof outside?

Can anyone express how, in his absence,

she feels the breeze gently kissing her?

Can anyone hear the echoes of one’s heartbeat,

or the sounds of silence?

Can anyone notice the orange rays of the sun

pierce itself through the slender opening of tree branches?

Can anyone see nature in Spring season

decked up in a beautiful green gown?

These pent up feelings and many more

flow nonchalantly only from the corridors of a poet’s heart.

How else do I write poetry then?

© Sabah

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