"Scenting in every corner the chance of a rhyme"

She tells me that she liked what I used to write earlier more. She, the girl who lives a wall away from me. She, the girl who might be my most ardent follower besides my mother perhaps. And she, the girl who'll never cease to be someone I want to appease.

But what I wrote earlier, reeked of immaturity. It was made of similar sounding phrases and over-thought of rhyming words. I was a kid then. I like to believe I'm all grown up now and my words have more of an impact now, more depth, more meaning. But maybe she's right. She, the only girl I share my mother with. She, the one whose been a mother to me in more ways than one. And she, the one who tries so hard to understand this new me.

For she knew the kid me, probably even liked her. I was clear then, like fresh dew drops on grass. But as the day progresses, the dew gets a little paler by the moment before dissolving altogether. I dissolved. Into the bars of the rhymes that I hunted. Into the darkness of the night which was always so comforting. Into the beats of the music that get me through each day.

And still, she perseveres. Through every post and prose. Looking for that poem which will be full of sunshine and rainbows. Scenting in every corner, the chance of a rhyme. Waiting through it all for the hint of a smile. Someday, someday I will make her smile. Someday I will make it worth her time. Someday she will approve.

Till then, I'll shuffle among my murky thoughts on my own, seeking I know not, which sort of clarity. For though the writer in me shall live forever, the poet has died a million deaths.