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