A letter to my oldest poem

Oh! My old creation

You’ll be certainly happy to know

The compliments that I missed on you

Now often comes in a row

It all started with you

You are the first rung of my ladder

But in the interim of my climbing

I kept on getting better

I don’t see you often

But I am not now floating in air

I am nothing but an adolescent author

That is all your fonts declare

You still are dearest

Coz commotions you contain are core

I adorn them now with artificial attentions

Just to come on fore

After gathering fame

Publicizing you will be worthwhile

Coz all my unstructured phrases

Will then be coined as a style

I now know them well

You’ll be surely awarded with merit

Coz what looks simple and unattractive

They simply call it esoteric