I open my poembook
And stare at it,like some treasure of some notorious crook.
I hold the pen,
Put it in sync with the paper
And words pour out,
While I sit in my den.

I don’t care what I write,
So long I write with my heart and might…
It may be sad, it may be gay,
So long it makes my day.

The blank papers of the days of yore,
Suddenly become a bank of words.
The old pens, with some pathetic ink
Suddenly finish, without any kink.

My brain’s attic, so filled with words,
Suddenly get filtered by hoards.
My imagination, so without a spark,
Lights up, ready to leave a mark.

Feelings of pain,
Or happiness insane…
All find their place in some nook
Of my dear poembook.

My eyes see the world;
My nose smells the hot and cold;
My ears hear the sounds;
My fingers feel the pounds…
But once I hold a pen…
I jot down the whole world en bloc,
Forgetting the sands of time…

People my call me a nerd,
They may call me a bookworm,
But I couldn’t care less...
For I know I’m different from the herd
And thus don’t have any reason to mourn.

Maybe I’m what they say, an addict…
But unlike any other,
I’m a devotee of edicts –
Edicts of words, passed from countless ages,
Which have now found their way
Into my the-blank, brown pages…