The passion for writing
is like a kite
above and up it flies
never does it shies
my enthusiasm rises
it multiplies in thrice
then mounts up in four folds
the thirst I could not hold
I write like a mad
pen poems of sad
poetise joy
talk with coy
know not my structure
nor my grammar
either the syntax
without an index
that is me through and through
a soul into the blue
Meenas Poems 