I am a college student with enormous energy to talk and act. I was in class three when I first wrote a story although it lacked traces of reality. It consisted of my imagination and rhymes. My parents were oblivious to the fact that I can write poems and stories, as I am a very secretive person. It was during my 12th standard examination when one of the invigilators found me of my scribbling on my question paper, a piece pertaining to the incidents of the Examination Hall. Since it consisted of blatant, ugly truths of the prevailing scenario of the Hall, I was reported to the Principal and my parents were summoned. That was how for the first time my parents came to know that I have a knack towards writing. I was censured, but simultaneously the externals did pat my back. And that's where I was propagated to take my writing seriously. It was my seat of Inception to Revelation of my Being through poems. It was an inexpressible feeling where I was chided as well as praised by my Principal Sir. This is why I kept on writing what ever popped up in my mind and penned down my thoughts about my family, nature, parents, feelings and even animals. I am not a poet by birth but I am a poet by situation. I love to write poems as they are my best means of expression and my pen is my best comrade.
Peace-inner condition of mind- a quiet flowing river of invisible waves, sea wave of righteousness, money can’t buy. Peace-tranquility upon soul- calmness upon mind and body; those-you love-their home you make a resting place, your haters-upon them are disquiet and
Bloodshed, bloodshed everywhere Mere violence in the air Clouds of obscurity strewn about The sky of fateful memories. A terrible terror crammed In the inner core of the heart There’s no room for mercy now Retort hatred with hatred And
People are celebration friendly Celebrate when life shortens too Dancing, swinging and singing Saying happy birthday to you. People are celebration friendly Celebrate at the end of each year Romping, waltzing and caroling Wishing you happy new year. People know
Was it a summer storm of sexuality? Only the chaste statue stood in threads, and then went down the cuticle with nipple rings. The demand of namelessness was rising in the dim shadows of brisk tones. To step down from