Wednesday, 18 April 2018

I Once Knew a Poet


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.