In the wonderscape
of verse,
I weave my narratives—
imperfect threads stitched
with the essence
of my silent pain,
inked in the language
of my blood.
A poetic journey
unfolds,
a delicate beat
with the scalpel
through the labyrinth
of my mind,
carving life onto
the parchment of my heart,
etching emotions
into existence.
No laurels adorn me,
no structured attire
of style.
I am a poet
unadorned,
a craftsman with a pen,
planting words
like seeds,
nurturing the garden
of expression.
It’s not about being understood
or acknowledged;
it’s about the
intimate dance
between ink and soul.
I listen
with my eyes,
I see
with my touch,
I feel
with my ears.
I paint
with words,
a dreamscape
of the mind.
A sunrise heard
in hues of gold,
A lover’s kiss,
sweet and tender,
A storm raging
with wild abandon.
I paint with words,
And you are my canvas.
For her, for him,
for you, and most of all,
for me—
I craft verses
as a mirror
to my prana,
allowing the reflection
to unfold.
I am the artist,
not seeking perfection
but embracing the sincerity
of my poetic living journey.