The war pinches a little, you couldn't prevent the doom,
A lost friendship stabs deep, hardens you with its gloom.
Some pain you cultivate and curate, others you let go soon,
In the right amount the mud of pain, makes your poetic lotus bloom.
There's a dim satisfaction in knowing, you helped prevent a few suicides,
When your friends write a poem on your B'Day, you're bursting with joy on all sides.
For some slivers of joy, you had to work hard, others were thrown in your lap,
If you don't let it get to your head, this wellspring of joy, for your poems you can tap.
The loss of a loved one may perturb you a bit, you quickly recover compose,
The equanimity that has over time morphed to apathy, a greater danger to you pose.
Emotions recollected in tranquility, isn't that how poems are supposed to be born,
Each poem has to be discarded post writing, just like clothes old and worn.
You wish for me strength and serenity, I wish for me joy and pain,
What's life without a moderate bit, of some sunshine and some rain.
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