Solely on poetry

Regular readers of this blog, especially the ones who have been around long enough to have read an earlier (much earlier) post on poetry, would know that I'm not too good at it. People, who happen to know me decently well, would also know that I'm not too good at it, besides knowing that I'm slightly insane. Mr. Karan Misra, who happens to be unfortunate enough to be both (a regular reader of this blog and a person who happens to know me decently well; not bad at poetry and slightly insane), put it very aptly, when he once said, with characteristic eloquence, that Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz could have written better poetry. I am quite sure that he was correct.

What I am trying to convey is that I have never been very good at poetry. I haven't even been a little good, and have escaped being dreadfully bad only by the skin of my teeth. A very long time ago, I had tried, and failed, and being a man who knows his limitations, I had, until very recently, resigned myself to a poetry-less existence.

But recently, when I took a look around, as I tend to do every couple of months or so, I saw everybody writing, believe it or not, poetry. It seems to me to be the latest fad. All my good friends are writing poetry. All my not-so-good friends are writing poetry. All the people I know but am not quite friendly with are writing poetry, and I am very sure that quite a few of the people I don't know at all would be writing poetry as well. I feel, to put it bluntly, quite left out.

A friend of mine, a real stud, recently said, "Today, if you're writing poetry, you're cool. If you're not, you're not." When I heard that, I told him I wanted to be cool. He laughed at me. But when I told him I was serious, he said grimly, "Manu, I'm not going to lie to you. It is going to be tough. But just do as I say, and I assure you, one day, you will be." "Where do I start?", I asked him. He thought a bit, and then said, expectedly, "Let's start with poetry."

So Ladies and Gentlemen, without much further ado, allow me to present my first step on the road to cooldom.

Another Day

He wakes up from a dream,
And sees the daylight streaming in.
He sits up in bed,
Trying to remember himself again.

He looks at himself in the mirror.
His face is drawn and weary.
His eyes are tired,
Yet they seem to him to shine.

And he knows he's still alive,
And forces himself to smile.

In case any of you got what I was trying to say in that poem, do let me know. I didn't understand much of it after the first couple of lines, and I would love to know what it means.
Thank You, and a very Happy Belated Dusshera to all.