It was not so long ago,
that I slipped into,
the undeniable truth,
that being a poet,
called for tons of courage.

To think that we poets possess,
the spirit to voluntarily refresh,
everything that acutely shatters our hearts,
from our deepest wounds and traumas,
to our most painful scars,
solely for the sake of keeping,
our pens breathing,
which further fires our passion.

We dig deep into our bruises,
and let them rejuvenate our pain.
We retell our stories to strangers,
through what we compose,
indeed, it's our valor,
enclosed within our creations that shows.

We are indeed artists,
with such enormous power,
resting in the nibs of our pens.
For we have the ability,
to influence people's age old mindsets,
and make them comtemplate,
over their disrespectful opinions.

We heal the broken,
and gift light to the directionless,
through the way our minds work,
which further works as an open testimony,
to our indisputable effect.

To be a poet means,
to seek poetry,
in all that we see.
To be a poet means,
to beautifully interpret,
our life and its subtleties.

To be a poet means,
to be a hopeless dreamer.
To be a poet means,
to be a hopeless romantic.

Poetry to a poet,
is what therapy is to the depressed.
A poet never gets tired,
to pen down what it soulfully admires.

Perhaps, it's a pleasure,
to be one of those,
that spot beauty in all,
that the cycle of life holds.
but does it imply,
that it's all sunshine and rainbows,
for the elixir of vivid imagination,
to constantly flow,
within our veins and blood as if,
we only see the light that life holds?

Isn't the fact that we glorify everything,
a chilling nightmare to the realists?
For people that choose to be practical,
do they realize how we see the world?

We could be daydreaming,
and turn it into poetry,
in a few days, minutes or seconds.
but the fact that we romanticize,
almost anything that impresses our soul,
does that invite troubles for us?
does it put us out of control?

I write poetry,
today, on days that follow,
and in hours
when my heart
overflows with hope,
that someone, someday,
will read and acknowledge my work,
the same way it has been composed.

The kind of love,
I fantasize of,
in my picturesque poetries,
is the kind of love,
I hopelessly expect,
for someone to give me.

That's the thing,
with poets and their dreamy minds.
They could romanticize something,
as delicate as dancing in the rain,
then think of walking at night,
in the tender streets of Paris.

They could see a girl crying,
in the solitude of a metro train,
and dedicate a poem to it,
the very next day.

It's both a boon and a curse,
to be a poet and a dreamer.
The world looks like,
a dream on a good day,
but then sometimes it reminds me,
of a frightfully dark night.

They say when the mind is silent,
it cannot think of things.
but then there's a whimsical poet,
who can very effortlessly,
turn that into insightful poetry.

Well, that's the magic,
behind an innovative poet
and its creativity,
it's their power and their passion,
to formulate and acclaim artistry,
with such emotion and enthusiasm,
that goes on to create,
such great remarks in history.

I still live with buoyant thoughts,
hoping that someday I'll find someone,
who instills life into my words,
and lets me know how my impressions feel
when I can see them breathe,
through the efforts of whom I seek.
~sk

© aestheticallypoetic