While reading all best poems, when I remembered that I am a good poetess too

The pages of the open books;

or perhaps the ones I opened once

long ago into the dilapidated time

have been kept staring at me 

ever since I promised them -

"I will build interest in you soon:"

The books I scribbled ; sadly not as a poet

but for a young  anonymous aspiration.

I left the water ajar which I brought

to quench my thirst,

perhaps my thirst is as deceitful as me;

and why it shouldn't be,

because the lactose of the water,

cannot stimulate the essence -

which the dopamine of good words can.

There is scent in air,

of yellow sandalwood-

may be my words are poor dyers.

 But still can describe the ethereal essence

of the fragrance 

of its holiness,

taking all my mind and my senses 

dripping into it.

A fan droodling over my head,

in its kohl I hear the stories it says;

and I mispercept as of my 

mind is creating them all-

starting from the dawn 

to when the night falls.

And the pages are still gazing,

now not at me but at the roof

of a shattered hope;

They gossip about my bad future

and poor polyglot me,

I understand their language

and laugh at their talks.