Conviction of a Poet

Not wanting to carry my own chair Yet, for sure somewhere out there Someone, behind the scene, likes my poetry Not by its message, nor by its poetic artistry Perhaps, they just simply like it Some may not, or, even disagrees a little bit Others may post comment……..bad or good Still, I can accept, even if it’s rude For without them, how can I learn? To succeed, one needs others’ concern This is what I’m trying to imply-- Myself, to fear, I must not comply The arts of writing is not my cup of tea It just happened that I discovered its beauty Though, my skill, limited to basic conjugation A barrier that I dare to tackle with emotion So, aging brain is now addicted to write Not because it senses the waiting termite But, for the sake of recording my identity To be wrapped in words, for others to see For when the whispering wind blows its last At least, I’ve no regret, for someone will cast The priceless treasure, I left, from the mind From blood to blood, it‘ll always be mine And for the meantime, I’ll keep on writing …love, hate, friendship and all sorts of things That’s burning inside me….. Great or not, how does poet’s mind works?