A Poem

When my left hand wrote a poem for me,
Right hand glared at it in jealousy,
He tried to lift a pen and a paper,
Doesn’t look so hard as it seems,
Scribbled and tumbled for a while,
But never lost its path, never wavered,
Losing and disappointment,
Feelings and thoughts from inside ate her,
Rain and sun all the weathers came along,
Birds of spring stopped to sing a song,
In the mean time left hand rested in peace,
Joys and pride of winning never seized,
And so the left hand slept out of sight,
Right hand could write only a few lines,
Looked at the reflection of its empty hands,
Dropped down broken hearted wept and cried,
Reflection of a car speeding before my eyes,
No matter how much dense dark clouds try to hide,
Burnished and lustrous sun never forgets to rise,
And so I held my right hand close to my heart,
No matter how treacherous the journey is,
My thoughts and words never lost their path,
I know my left hand was once a part of me,
A poem once written so calm and serene,
Writing with my right hand,
Doesn’t seem so hard to me,
And whenever I waver, beg and crumble,
A poem of my life gives me the time to think.