Before the lecture began, there was small talk. 

He asked me why I haven't shown him my poetry yet. I told him that I don't post it online, just show it to people—the ones I want to—when I need. I'll make sure that I do show him one. After a two-second pause, he said that he writes Urdu poetry. I complimented and encouraged him, though he pretended to not have heard my request of a few lines from his work. 

I guess he must feel the same way. He must be scared of plagiarism, too.

I, then, said something I now regret.

People value Urdu poetry, and not English.

Thinking about it now, I know that what I said wasn't right. People don't value poetry at all; be it English or Urdu. 

Nowadays, no one has time for modern poetry. Our curriculum also bounds our youngsters from exploring new poets and their works, restricting their limit by never being modified. Our teachers studied from the very books we are studying from, and tell us that so did their teachers. 

I once asked someone a question: Do you know who Taufiq Rafat is?

That person had no clue.

To be honest, I don't know much about him either. We read a poem of his in middle-school, the one by the name of Children Understand Him. Even though I began writing my real poetry in high school, Mr. Rafat's poem might have been the reason why I started writing. Reminiscing about the old times, I now remember that my fifth-grade poetry was a little like this:

The princess and the pea,

I saw her drinking tea. 

And: 

Fresh, fresh air, 

reaching to my ears, 

I can feel the wind, 

in my hair. 

My siblings and my mom make fun of it even today. 

It was childish, but now, it most certainly isn't. I can bet my, well, my Avril Lavigne poster on that!

Whether Mr. Rafat did or didn't introduce me to this art, I'm glad I began writing. 

But I know one thing: I can't succeed as a poet here.

In VLM (Visionary Leadership and Motivation), our teachers tell us about how important it is to do what we want and not what we don't. My having chosen CS, I believe, is getting in my way of everything. The courses are too demanding and homework and assignments keep piling up. If I don't get my act together, I might drown. 

I only have like, twelve or more poems. That's. It. Whatever I deemed unprofessional, never made it out of my poem diary and to my computer and other devices, since I no longer write on paper. How can I produce more when my attention is needed elsewhere? 

A friend of mine gave me this advice when I asked for his help:

Study first, write later. 

People send their poems into magazines, which isn't good for them. I've been advised to do the same, but I know that it's bad advice. Two of poems got stolen, when I submitted them to be printed in our school's magazine. They were nowhere to be found. The paper I had written them on were my only copies—stupid, stupid me.

And that's where my fear of plagiarism generates from. 

I keep on web-browsing, placing a line or two every now and then of my poems to be sure that they're nowhere on the internet. The search results are always satisfying. 

But I am still paranoid. 

So, this is what happens to beginners, they just can't do anything. The beginners here, in Pakistan. There's no platform for us to showcase our talents, and we just keep on dreaming of "the day" when our lives will change, when the whole world will know us because of our gifts. 

I am on constant surveillance of opportunities, where I can get a chance to make a new name for myself with my poetry. None has arrived yet. There are awards for poets, but I am nowhere near applying for them. I don't even have published anything yet. 

So I'm waiting, for my four years of university education to end. No more doing what I don't want!