What Is It; If Not A Poetry?

This is not a poetry;

Not the one that you are familiar with.

This is a sigh; The wail of my heart;

The one that you refuse to envisage

And here I live; Out in cold, homeless

Homeless, since your heart was my home;

In which, now resides your arrogance and vanity

If only you could see through and perceive,

And could discern the difference.

This is not a poetry

Not the one that you are familiar with.

This is a different sky; The sky of my visions;

I recurrently go on excursions across it

And spread the wings of my dreams so wide;

That they could just bolt away and glide high,

Outrageously high; Along I fly with them too;

Befitting into the cocoon,

Obliterating every possibility of defeat.

This is not a poetry

This is a different season; The season of my desires

Could there be another winter so cold;

And I could lie torpid sans obligations

Could there be another summer so hot;

I could walk barefoot destitute of getting burns

Could there be autumn so beguiling and vivid;

All I could want is to be surrounded with peace,

Vibrance, Tranquility and Quietude.

This is not a poetry

This is just a piece of my heart;

Of all the likeness and distinctness of my feelings

This is the contour of my sketch;

Finding  it’s purpose through the canvas of my soul

This is a ditty;

I would utterly love to sing out loud.

“My hope is to be hopeful enough;

To spot the light even at the darkest end of the tunnel”

Picture Credit- From here

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