My eyelids are drooping,
It is the morning of the evening,
I am binging on books today,
And feeling, the writings unread,
What a poet goes through,
He poetises melancholy,
And long before you understand the impulse,
The day ends, without any concern.
It's not sympathy or concern,
It's about the beauty in the run,
Of not races but rhymes,
Sometimes, even a poet cries,
Ever thought why words mean so much?
Someone bleaked them on paper,
Just for a person.
Kunjal Sharma
