poetry
Lately, my only passion is for poetry,
I quench my soul's thirst endlessly.
The newborn babe’s cry in verses,
I leave behind just as it is.
My heart is tattered and torn,
I write my poems, scratching and worn.
One day, with these papers I've penned,
Everyone may wipe them clean in the end.
I pour my thoughts onto the pages,
Relentlessly, my pen engages.
If I fail to share my mind,
What good is a blank page left behind?
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