The Creator
In the seventh row,
Sitting in the last column
Apart from the mob
My pen is on the trot
Running after words
Coming from the heart
Not writing what is heard.
With a weak memory
And with a fragile empathy
A habitual creator
Not the follower of an orator
Knowledge as a burden
Imposed without a concern
I am a follower of imagination
Worthy without repetition
In the class
Looking out of the glass
A sun is setting
My ink is wetting
A poem is taking birth
Coming on this earth
A world of my words
Beyond this world
A place filled with dreams
Let me go
Set me free
I am no student
But a teacher soon to be
Beyond these alien lines
Creating what will be mine
