When I hold my pen for poem,
I don't know the wanderers of world,
My strokes of the words brokes,
Still I put my heart on works ,

A four line on a white page,
Made by me ,waited for ages,
No eyes to admire my words,
No soul was there in my worst,

Losing hope , disencouraged,
Thinking I'm not capable,
Crushed the paper of my poems
Along with my dreams .

Garbage is the only one,
Except me to read my poem ,
In a child's heart, sorrow is a part,
After years i lost my fears!!!

This poem is a journey of mine about writing poems. After a long time I am again writing poems now🤩.
           
                                       ~Shashi