Poetry
Poetry


They ask me,
To tear my soul
And put those fragments
Back into a whole
They ask me to
Write poetry
To pen it down
And make my soul free
Then they praise me
For my eloquent feeling
Are they aware
Of how I'm dealing?
They call my words intense
But under that pretence
I hide something deep
It's secrets that I keep
So, I play along
And just smile.
Letting the praises fall deaf
On my ears for a while.