poet

Some people make you want to be a better person, and that, for me, is the purest form of love.

Lovers dream of one more embrace.One more kiss.One act of love, no matter how small.For in loving, lover and belovedemptied themselves.Now, they look for their oasislike men engulfed in flames.Even filled to the brim, they will never satiate. For they continue to leak, thesecracked vessels.How else did love seep through?

I left the bankbecause they wouldn__ deposit my cheque of poems.So I went to the store,but they didn__ acceptmy currency of words.So I boxed all my storiesand took them to charity.But they refused my donation and asked me to give blood instead.I opened the notebooks and made them look, 'What do you think I wrote these in?

All kinds of people read poetry: revolutionaries, scholars, sentimentalists etc. But above all else, lovers read poetry. Why? Because we fell in love. And then we fell in love with love.

So often we confuse mistakes for soul mates, lessons forlovers, and at the same time worthy life partners for one-night stands. It__ an epidemic.

Your eyes are like heavy rain falling from pregnant clouds. With one glance, you washed awaythe poems I chalked on the groundand drowned all my beliefs.Now, I only scribble your name and believe in your truth. I know nothing but you.

The universe on your skin is emptyfrom all the silence on your tongue.Forgive yourself. Let your body healfrom all the wounds you did not inflicton yourself. Drop the sword you carryon your shoulder for self-defense.Lower the armor you hold high upfor protection. Those who harmed youare not going to come back. Those whohave left never intended to return.

They came and they left. You cried, but you stood your ground. You stayed tethered to hope as well as committed to dignified dreams and little victories of day-to-day life. You felt different. Then you started to change. Your smile returned with reticence before completely taking over your face. Today, you are no longer afraid to let that smile be there, and now you understand it was not about them. It was never about anyone else. This was about you from the day you were born. This was about you learning to love yourself__ot letting the inferiority of the external corrupt the piety of the internal. This was your personal revolution. This was the uprising of your lifetime.And you won.

The tragedy of love is in its ending, the blessing__verything else. No love ever deserves to end.

When the nightcomes to break my heart,I think of you.

In the very end, all we have left to atone for our faults are words.

To be a poet in today__ technological age means to be underrated and at times, ignored. In a world where the noise of industry reigns supreme, the poet__ voice is being drowned out, but it is a voice that is desperately needed. Our words ring out into the atmosphere and calls the masses back to their senses. We must seize this opportunity and remain true to our purpose in society. Ours is a most noble duty, here to represent the misunderstood and underrepresented, and one day, one person will heed the call of our words and the world will be set ablaze!

Your world is as big as you make it.I know, for I used to abideIn the narrowest nest in a corner,My wings pressing close to my side.

A poet can imagine an iceberg singing a melancholic song while the world leaders find it difficult to imagine proper solution to global warming.

The reason is that they utter these words of theirs not by virtue of a skill, but by a divine power - otherwise, if they knew how to speak well on one topic thanks to a skill, they would know how to speak about every other topic too.

Have you ever plunged into the immensity of space and time by reading the geological treatises of Cuvier? Borne away on the wings of his genius, have you hovered over the illimitable abyss of the past as if a magician's hand were holding you aloft? As one penetrates from seam to seam, from stratum to stratum and discovers, under the quarries of Montmartre or in the schists of the Urals, those animals whose fossilized remains belong to antediluvian civilizations, the mind is startled to catch a vista of the milliards of years and the millions of peoples which the feeble memory of man and an indestructible divine tradition have forgotten and whose ashes heaped on the surface of our globe, form the two feet of earth which furnish us with bread and flowers. Is not Cuvier the greatest poet of our century? Certainly Lord Byron has expressed in words some aspects of spiritual turmoil; but our immortal natural historian has reconstructed worlds from bleached bones.

My words are my children. I am eternally grateful to the womb of my mind for conceiving them.

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being becomes dance.