Draft of a poet
All my poetries are dying from the soul,
Cause, they cannot reflect anymore,

Deaf and dumb to the music,
Blind to the art of poetry,

Quenching for those soft words,
To swallow with ease and comfort,

Drying up to get wet by the letters,
Synonymous with the little rain drops,

And shivering to the cold thoughts,
Just for the warm ideas to visit my place.

© Rajvik