Poetry is foolish,
It is unnecessary.
Why waste your time
In metaphors and rhymes
When you could be out there
Doing law, engineering or medicine
Saving lives and making your life.
But what are you saving them from?
What is this sickness that invades our body
It festers in each one of us
You could call it melancholy.
But that is not the cause,
Only the symptom.
Why do I feel this yearning?
Something I cannot define
Yet I have never felt anything so whole
Why do these words relinquish yours?
Act as a balm and soothe your spirit
With the knowledge that someone,
Somehow, somewhere
out there Understands.
Buried emotions, intruding thoughts,
The wonders the world has to offer,
Raging desires, drowning sadness,
Poetry has it all.
But is it necessary?
It teaches you not to get
something out of life.
But to live life itself.
It translates the humdrum of daily routine,
Into a couple of words and stanzas.
It quietens the buzz in your head.
It makes your long uneventful years
Worth the sweat and tears.
Poetry is not merely a hobby,
It is a way of life.
It is a means to thrive,
In the multitudes.
Among them, to find your solitude.
You can contrast the sun to a speck of dust
And to the reader, leave the rest.
You can step out of the norms and borders
Marking your actions.
Not care about the reactions.
You can let your spirit run free.
And have faith,
that for someone out there,
This is the perfect thing to hear.
But isn't Poetry restrictive?
To connect words that rhyme
And roll off the tongue nicely.
You're right!
How tedious it must be
To indulge in a little melody!
To find symbols and meanings in
The insignificant things of life.
To have your search make them
All the more meaningful.
To translate the essence of each moment,
Into something beyond
the borders of your horizon.
To indulge in the song that
The flowers, trees and people
Seem to sing.
To be part of it
And compose it.
And perform it.
To shout out to the world
your most intimate thoughts.
To find, amongst all the noise,
Your own voice.
Poetry is not an indulgence,
Not a temptation,
Not horrible,
Not wonderful.
It is what you make it out to be,
It reflects the choices you make
And the paths you take.
It depends on the reader
As much as the poet.
It invites you to sing the sonnet.
It will mean what you want it to.
Poetry is not just a hobby,
It is a way of life.
A choice to be.
It is unnecessary.
Why waste your time
In metaphors and rhymes
When you could be out there
Doing law, engineering or medicine
Saving lives and making your life.
But what are you saving them from?
What is this sickness that invades our body
It festers in each one of us
You could call it melancholy.
But that is not the cause,
Only the symptom.
Why do I feel this yearning?
Something I cannot define
Yet I have never felt anything so whole
Why do these words relinquish yours?
Act as a balm and soothe your spirit
With the knowledge that someone,
Somehow, somewhere
out there Understands.
Buried emotions, intruding thoughts,
The wonders the world has to offer,
Raging desires, drowning sadness,
Poetry has it all.
But is it necessary?
It teaches you not to get
something out of life.
But to live life itself.
It translates the humdrum of daily routine,
Into a couple of words and stanzas.
It quietens the buzz in your head.
It makes your long uneventful years
Worth the sweat and tears.
Poetry is not merely a hobby,
It is a way of life.
It is a means to thrive,
In the multitudes.
Among them, to find your solitude.
You can contrast the sun to a speck of dust
And to the reader, leave the rest.
You can step out of the norms and borders
Marking your actions.
Not care about the reactions.
You can let your spirit run free.
And have faith,
that for someone out there,
This is the perfect thing to hear.
But isn't Poetry restrictive?
To connect words that rhyme
And roll off the tongue nicely.
You're right!
How tedious it must be
To indulge in a little melody!
To find symbols and meanings in
The insignificant things of life.
To have your search make them
All the more meaningful.
To translate the essence of each moment,
Into something beyond
the borders of your horizon.
To indulge in the song that
The flowers, trees and people
Seem to sing.
To be part of it
And compose it.
And perform it.
To shout out to the world
your most intimate thoughts.
To find, amongst all the noise,
Your own voice.
Poetry is not an indulgence,
Not a temptation,
Not horrible,
Not wonderful.
It is what you make it out to be,
It reflects the choices you make
And the paths you take.
It depends on the reader
As much as the poet.
It invites you to sing the sonnet.
It will mean what you want it to.
Poetry is not just a hobby,
It is a way of life.
A choice to be.