Expressing one’s words was never difficult till it was supposed to be expressed in the form of a work of art—poetry. Expressions of emotions, frequently tied to Romanticism, be it towards the Creator, nation, nature, or beloved ones. These emotions have created warriors and rebels; heroes and villains; the wise and mad; writers and illiterates; calm and anger... and even more.  

What’s it actually? Is it this powerful? Why do these emotions make and destroy the strugglers of this lifeless, dull life? We’ll never know the deep truths—but one thing’s clear: anyone can talk, murmur, muse, or brood the art of poetry. But fear kills

[...mind blank, paper blank.]

Maybe it is like a rainy day, thunder and lightning all over the realms visible to our eyes. In hearts of hearts, we’re thrilled by the haunted, scary beauty of it. We murmur, "Nature is beautiful yet dreadful!"

Same with us—the would-be poets. We love these emotions but fear putting them into verse, scared of judgment. We ****** our inner poet. [Beep-beep. The Poet is dead.]

But the brave ones? They write anyway, ignoring the silent and haunted voices of the world. We call them Poets. These emotions are called Love be it—for land, for people, for God.  

That’s poetry’s power. It’s shaped history—wars, revolutions, hearts. Before calling it “mere timewaste writing,” remember: even the worst book teaches something.  

That’s why we call this art—  
                                                POETRY.
Haunted days,
Haunted nights,
Same fight
...yet we still write.

In the haunted art
We find our light