I regret writing poetry,
As it is of no use you see.
These woven words are useless
Creating invaluable worthless glee.
My mother said poetry isn't for you
And ye rather has other works to do.
These letters are often mine life- I said,
And if I hast not written I must be dead.
I beg, let me not stop to write,
As I have none to explain my pain.
Let me not be broken in mine own spite,
As all I thought was all in vain.
If ye can't spare me to write for free,
Let me die and my grave won't you see.
M.Saifuddin
©saifuddin
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