By now I have known that it’s no big deal to write  poems. 

There’s addiction in ordinary lives too just like lives on roads…

and how you capture that blue ordinariness by your honest fire, is what matters the most. 

Let those minds dwell on the past only when you can creative with it…

There’s poem in last trains…taking people who sweats in grossly underpaid jobs…

there’s poem in every empty eyes of ice cream vendors…

People counting days on the footpath, 

the winds of falling leaves, 

every stroke of a mad brush come out of these differentially perceived regularity. 

There never were any prisons in your mind, 

just don’t make one now after seeing through the wet glasses.