I’m not a poet – not Shakespeare, not Dickenson, not Plath.
My words are quite simple;
Far from a masterpiece, it’s clear.
They may not rhyme, but I don’t mind;
It’s not the reason I write my poetry anyway.
I write for myself –
For the ones I love,
The ones who chose to depart,
And the ones who stayed.
For the echoes of those beyond our reach,
Yet closest to our souls.
With every word, I bring them alive.
Every stroke of the pen,
Every curve of a letter,
Breathes life into their souls.
In my world, they are immortals
Who shall never die.
In the end,
Isn’t that what poetry is for?
