You will smile scornfully reading this
and surely will laugh at the rhythm, if any.
Your new one will probably be more amused
and you (probably) being almost used to
reciting such comparable stuffs, one too many,
will be shrugging shoulders.
My poems often blush me red
but cannot stop me instead
(from)getting lost in reveries
and from
loving you.
My poetry make me count my age
smeared with sediment of rhymes,
like pallid pages of an unused book
treasuring the gift of times.
These verses still overlook
wrinkled folds beneath the eye,
they fall short in telling me why
wet eyes take time to dry.
Beloved friends and relatives of mine
consider me a psychological wonder
dawdling over an untidy desk
why I waste time to ponder
scribbling some silly sentiments,
my poems
go down bringing up the reason
for hunting words
throughout the seasons.
