I
once knew a poet, shy and silent,
But
every night he would turn unvoiced words into verses –
Words
that he never uttered, words filled with pain,
For
a world that he belonged, soulfully disgrace,
Shading
an imprint on his heart, he conquered a rage,
The
same rage made him submerge into the depth
And
bleed out ink on papers, composing soulful verses,
Pouring
his heart in colourful array of words,
Masquerading
his shyness and firming the frailties
He
wrote innumerable pieces, creating an illusion of himself,
And
in a thriving attempt, he pretence vibrant display of expressions,
For
the world doesn’t know the dreams his soul hinders,
Whirled
into untold thoughts, dark and endless –
Left
behind memories consume; an easier death to caress.
I
now know a poet, alone and deathless,
For
he wasn’t born, crave for words made him a poet,
And
now he wanders on lost dark alleys
Hiding
behind disguises of shameful masks,
For
he painted the world with charming verses
Emerging
from darker shades of thoughts,
A
poet celebrated widely, yet on colder nights, he’s alone,
For
he holds onto aching feelings and unending cursed things,
Things
that reflects destined pain, harder to erase –
Remnants
of shattered memoirs and fragments of broken trusts,
For
he created a barrier, a cocoon that nurtures his imperfection,
Wounds
that lay deeper in the soul, feeds his heart slowly,
And
he scribbles on the roughness of the paper with soothing pain
Sculpted
divine images and attach new emotions to his deathless name.
