A Poet's birth

When was this premature-poet born?

Was it the day? When
The abandoned virgin mirror of my room
Blushed at my hour-long stare
As I dressed up for you, just like a groom

Was it the day? When
Your hourglass figure walked past me
I took a swift deep breath
As a conscious try to hide my tummy

Was it the day? When
“Outlook” experienced something very new
Was tired with the countless “refreshes”
As my heart yearned for a new mail from you

Was it the day? When
I recorded giggles and rubbish from your mouth
Tuned them as my mobile ringtone
As it sounded better than Beethoven’s fourth

Was it the day? When
You silently came and sat by my side
Even an atheist’s wish came true
And my six foot frame, grew an inch in pride

Was it the day? When
I collected fragile bamboo words, braving the heat
Tied them as a poetic broom
Hoping to sweep you off your feet.



For this childish style, I have only you to blame
Coz of the desire to be with you,
This premature poet will write without any shame.
And the blood stained red-carpet of my heart,
Waits for your grand entry,
As only your presence in my life and not just art
Will complete me and my poetry.