Do you know how my poems are made?
Let me explain a bit.
The ductile alphabets,
They actually curve themselves to a universal recognised shape.
They tend to approach their fellows,
The scattered meaningless lines on a page.
Made with fallen coloured tear drops of a lonely pen,
Intending to juxtapose on the paper till the edge.
Then comes the struggle of assimilation,
Struggle to get a meaning of its own.
A word is made,
Following by many which urge for my emotions to be shown.
And the words tend to assemble to make a line,
A line that echoes the silence of my words.
They will pierce your heart to bleed for me.
That's why it's said,
Pen is mightier than the swords.
That is not the end as it seemed,
Single line would never be enough for my poem.
The lines take rebirth from their punctuations,
This is how my poems are made in my realm.