Are nights poetry?
Maybe they are born of words more than anything
Or do they birth them?
For those foolish moments when I think
That poems are only words
But then, how are you a poet
If you do not see an emotion in letters?
Do you not encase love in lines?
Do you not hide pain in paper?
Are not the nights for the ink to flow?
Or maybe it is so, only for me
In the dark, everything comes alive
Especially that which is unseen in the morning
Maybe the night breathes life
Into everything hidden inside heart coffins
It reaches every dream buried in doubts
In confusions and questions
And wakes it up
Before I know it, words run
The poem has a life of its own
What I want to write and what is written
Are two different things in the end
Maybe poetry is life in that way