I used to have so much poetry in me those years,
those years when I wrote compulsively,
those years when I day dreamed,
when I was not disillusioned, yet.
Then when I was yet to put in all,
yet to be tested.
When others' successes were not so judged by me,
when I didn't yet feel wronged by the world.
Age, wisdom, failures, lost opportunity
and a continuous struggle to stay afloat.
Life. don't know why they consider it a gift.
But without life there'd be no beauty to appreciate,
no poems and words to linger on
no Eureka moments, no serendipity of finding human connections
no fight against the tugs of attraction
no sweet pains, no warm caresses
and no memory
no exhilaration of waiting, even if in vain.
No problems to tackle, awake and in dreams,
no pleasurable pain, no joyful sweat.
no dancing or running or swimming,
no gasping for breath to keep it going.
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