I knew nothing but to arrange my thoughts in an order
The order may many times cross every border
A few words that I muster all along the path
I try to decipher my feelings
Out from a cluster
Never did I bother to load a simile or a metaphor
None of my creations may stand the test of times
I do write as I can’t do mimes
Though I say I many times
Neither narrative nor dramatic
My words does fly
Nothing much read, nothing to spread or hide
I keep on writing where my heart dwell
Simple and sample I fill my lines
I wander through limitless lanes
No mentor in view nor a critics preview
I keep on repeating my own rapporteur
Had I gone through the grind
Of refine
Reading many print in fine
I would have lost the raw honey taste
I wouldn’t have written some in haste
No plot and theme no canvas behind I spray my words in thin air
No expression to impress the might
I don’t want my feelings under the Editor’s knife
Thus keeping my writings under the wrap
Only a few will try to unwrap
I am happy, bother not to Rhyme
Or else I have to proclaim
This a Sonnet, this a Ballad
Or some other frame
Thus I dare to admit
Mine, not poetry nor prose
A mixture of both
May be not in proportion
Is it poetic prose?
Or prose in a poem?
I wait for no answer framing a phrase