The Pen

I wish to know, 
From those humble minds,
Whose hearts sow,
The seeds of expressions,
So as to reap,
The pleasure of a poem,

 A large crowd encompasses me,
Resembling the one, 
Which perhaps encircles around all of you,
"Why are you writing now?
A poem can be penned anytime"
Really?
I asked myself,
And comes another 'Great' thought of the day,
"You poets are lonely people,
Maniacs actually,
You either land up in mental asylums,
Or die without any knowledge of what, where and how!"

 I pity such souls,
Who feel they know all,
But least do they fathom,
That instead of a much required punch,
I preferred my pen, 
To shell out my inner-self's crunch,

 (c) (S.S)





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