To The 13 Year Old From Venezuela. Poem by Hardik Vaidya

A young man just 13, writes to me,
Tells me Sir you are a great poet,
Guide me.
I feel so nude, so terrified, and so non me.
Young man, I am just a scribbler,
Writing from the discarded broom,
Spent after cleaning my minds gloom,
You are the spring of my tomorrow,
The bloom of youth, bursting to spume,
Your wisdom of energy, the spark of entirety,
Don't seek my advise,
Believe in your pen and your minds wild ride,
If your blood does not flow wild,
The middle aged dead horse that writes,
Will never forgive his generations short sight.