I want to be a poet. But it seems poetry does not want me as her writer. I put my pen on the tattered paper of love, yet no words bleed — no words of affection and forgiveness exploit.
It was the soul who gives life to someone else’s poems but for me, it was only the idea of poetry who gives life to my words.
I was once the writer of the greatest book of prose and the author of the utmost words of a poem. And still, this tattered paper of love stays as the paper of the unwritten love.
“I want to be a poet.” I said.
But no, I was once a poet, but because of you I lost the words of my poetry.