When it comes to me... (2005)

She tells me that I am a selfish poet.
Maybe coz I write what 'I' feel,
But thats a conundrum she creates,
Everytime I touch her to get the zeal.

She tasted me when I was young,
Too young maybe, even to know
That difference between opaque clouds 
And cold powdery snow.

She took me from the crib to the bed,
Where fables of the sins would be read.
Our conjugation left me craving for more
Of desertion, and pains sore.

Sometimes she calls me a murderer,
For having burnt our children one rainy night-
But out of desperation and painful futility
And maybe for some introspective fright.

Every word burnt with a sooty flame,
Vigorous in the aura of creative shame.
So they burnt a smoky, shameful death,
Undeserving of any possible blame.

But now that she has bred herself a score,
Their death can't hinder her more.
She is partial, or so might seem to thee.
But she is just too loving, when it comes to me...