If Poetry was a Person

If poetry was a person
it'd be respiratory organ
of millions of trees on this earth
sowing not only oxygen but also
prayers over its sensitive parts
until another autumn sheds tears
of joy that a writer carries in his
hands to preserve the nature.

If poetry was a person
it'd be paper planes made
out of all the hormonal secretions
of a young girl hiding all the acnes
and mood swings until it falls on
a rooftop where a young boy hold
it in his palms and whisper
'I love you' without a purpose.

If poetry was a person
it'd be shelter to all the buried
promises of two lovers who had
to part ways because their cities
are now renowned as
arranged marriages and they
doesn't feel like home there.
It's too hard to adjust for pleasures
when pain was what you had
been living for.

If poetry was a person
it'd be a sketchbook of a child
where he draws procedures of
being happy everytime.
It may seem insane but when
it is coloured through his naivety
and stillness it gets an excellent
remark by his teacher and then
paints the world beautiful.

If poetry was a person she'd
be all the where's and why's
when she gets pressed between
folds of warmth everytime she
makes love after a disastrous
heartbreak and she keeps waiting
till another sunrise wraps her body.

If poetry was a person it'd
be a good listener to all the
unheard voices of a mother
everytime when her husband returns
late at home and caress her head at
night but forget to visit her heart
and pay homage to her emptiness.

If poetry was a person
it'd be the experience of a
30-year old person rewriting
the past over her fragile body
and erasing childhood, teenage
and adulthood from her obstinate
methods of struggling and growing.