Whose wine is it, anyway?

I am like Lord Voldemort in many ways. Not because I have an oddly shaped nose or because I summon my friends by tickling their forearms. Not because I have these moments where I get transfixed and my mind becomes a portkey transporting me into a different dimension and certainly not because I behave like an ugly child. I am like him because I tend to create horcruxes too. I don't go about doing this by killing people and then proceeding to store my soul in inanimate objects. I pour a part of my very being into every poem I compose. Sentiment oozes out of my soul and falls onto the page thus immortalizing me through my verses. Poetry begins with a lump in the throat, followed by an adrenaline rush that culminates into a rhythmic sonnet. Every deep emotion finds an exit route through poetry. Anger surges through my blood and finds its way into a systematic rhyme scheme. Excitement that I cannot contain leaps off my chest and forms a part of titivating prose. Harry may have b

It was a cold evening in February. The winds had gone silent and a chilly unsettling nervousness nestled on every rooftop. The traffic was sparse and the crowd minimal. I stood alone in a corner waiting for her. I gathered my thoughts while I waited. How was I to tell her what I really felt? How was I to pour out months of emotions in a single confession, in a single evening? How does one describe a feeling in absolute terms? Will any superlative do justice to describe her beauty? Are there words in the English vocabulary that can describe what passes through me every time I lay my eyes on her? Why is it that I can write a thesis on a glow worm, but I fall short of words every time I see her? She must think I'm foolish, that I'm inarticulate! Oh how I wish she could view a glimpse of the thoughts that flash through my mind every time I see her. How sluggish my senses become when her windswept and scraggly hair falls over her face momentarily overshadowing her cat like ey