Someone asked to see my poems
From early college days.
And though I looked up all my files,
A lot I could not trace.

A few were never digitised.
A few had been erased.
A few sat on a TB drive,
Which I have now misplaced.

I found the one I wrote for her,
Which never could I send.
And the one I wrote to her,
Which she didn’t comprehend.

Also the one I could not write
Until it wrote itself
On the wall with a pencil lead
Behind the wooden shelf:

“I hate my life outside my books.
In writing, I belong.
I want to be a writer now,
But what if I am wrong?”