Soumya Scribbles...

For once I read my poetry and caressed with my palm, Felt what I have fathered and suffered and altered and still kept, dearly. You may show indifference but deep down between the pages, you have counted stars and tears: same time, for one. Your promises that were fulfilled and wishes that were abandoned, it still has the scent of the first red rose that has died waiting to be savored, somewhere else. The earthly smell and the aroma of rains happily trespassed and blotted a few emotions when you slept oneday keeping your window open. I shall stand up and say this to all you poets. If one night you feel like gasping, Touch your memories that are etched and inked as events, there inside your poetry. I have heard emotions can soak. For you will see glowworms coming out of them, and flying all around your room. You freed them and saved a life (of your own). Rejoice. SoUmy@

I am sleepless at nights. Between you and me and our rhymetic and prosaic verses Lies a Judas- perspectives. Yours and mine and theirs. Replication is for machines. And uniqueness is an illusion in a crowd. Because anyday we all are grouped to be too common or too unique. Just like this above contradiction, I concur... ...Lets not decipher a beautiful thought. I can take an oath against my limitations and say, interpreting is an insult sometimes. You can take a poem for a petal And sit there, just admire. Can't you? Because oneday you will mother an orphan emotion. I shall examine the skeleton and laugh. Would you like that Poet? SoUmY@ [You are free to avoid this piece as a crazy social experiment going wrong :) ]