Each time I sit to write,
Open my diary and take out a sheet crisp white,
The mind wanders to the heart for direction,
The heart peeps into the soul for reflection,
Images begin to flash on the internal screen,
Mostly are moments of love beautiful and serene,
Sometimes the heart also remembers its griefs,
And occasionally the teachings of life, which have now become beliefs,
The mind now picks up a topic of its choice,
As the heart begins to recite it's unheard voice,
The heart mines itself till the time it is ready to bleed,
Only then does a poem become, worth a read.
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