Poet’s Musings

It’s like I am collecting too much water but there is no outlet to let it flow....through hard work I can only collect, but flow is on the mercy of inspiration...a cry of burning hot pain, blackness of a frozen river of sadness, a drop of innocence still preserved in the midst of harshness of existence, a smile unaware of its potency, a sidewise look of a feminine eye-reaffirming the hope woven from illusion that life is beautiful; anything. Anything that breaches the hard shell of intellect made of thick rationalisation ( and cynicism) to overwhelm and to drown the pot in its own content. I read to be weak and vulnerable for that’s where sensitivity takes root, not to be poisoned with rationality. Otherwise there is no point for pot to collect- or for intellect to know-if it can’t feel joy and sadness deeper and deeper. For, poetry is the final condensate of emotional distillation of man, a few drops left of a whole universe inside-in form of few lines of poetry on paper. I am making my universe ready, but heat for distillation: I can only pray for.....

-Pulastya