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Poetry from within
   

Poetic Confessions


The poems always come to me

or I feel so.

I usually turn away,

pretending to be busy.

It is as though they hide

at nooks and corners

waiting to turn up

as soon as I come.

The longer I turn away,

the more they arrive

one after the other

in torn clothes

like mendicants,

like babies on the doorstep,

like penniless relatives

with stories so desolate.

I'd need a heart of stone

not to listen.

I therefore,

bleed my pen for them.

Netha Hussain
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