My poems are made up of coals, ember, ashes and dust. The only difference I wish to find out is what difference does the fire inside me and fire from me make at the point when they get radiated into words.
My poems are not the same. From the great value of writing, It still burns and stirs sensation of thought. That then grew into fire called poetry. Sometimes rushed on paper, Other times crashed or crushed. Whilst I lean the tip of my pen, Nothing makes a poet tired except the idea of the lines to be refreshing. That will confirm the presence of something even in it's absence. For those of you who ask why am I far away, The secret is the distance between the pen and paper.