So many emotions in this heart,
So many thoughts in this mind,
So much to give in this soul,
Yet, a paper devoid of any words,
The soul of words, no longer a part of my soul!

An occurrence so common, so contagious,
How did I get into this quicksand?
Once these words, my triumph, my glory,
Is it a conspiracy? Or is it just me?
It happens, when your thoughts are no longer yours.

Where is my muse?
The once vivid, inspiring one,
Where is my soul?
The once lively, expressive one,
A poet without a muse is a body without a soul.

Is it the pursuits in life?
Is it the importance of finances?
Is it my responsibilities towards my family?
Is it the pursuit of an unreliable love?
The reason for my demise, a plenty.

From a rational poet to an irrational individual,
How did it come to this?
From a treasure of words to an empty chest,
The one question, an answer to which I seek,
Who killed the poet in me?

Day changes into night, night into day,
From the depths of despair,
A phoenix will rise,
Breaking the chains that bind it,
For this is just the lull before a storm.

Erupting out of this transitory kiln called life,
Words shine only to become eternal,
A poet is never a poet until he passes through this kiln,
A worshipper of words is never killed,
He is only reborn.

I bow before these negative forces that make me weak,
Appreciation is the only source of inspiration,
Nobody is a born poet,
Poetry stems out of personal experiences,
Some call it love, some life.

My fellow poets, let poetry be your weapon,
Negative forces can bind people, but not words,
Poetry is my muse, poetry is my soul,
I used to live for poetry, now it lives for me,
Who can kill the poet in me?