THE POET Like wormwood these dreams Sometimes you put them out in the sun To soak and refresh And then put them back in some damp corner again Away from any usage. You are the poet You are the king of the damned Depression Grief and Agony Is what makes you You play alone Fighting for the for the losers glory. Everyone shall leave you behind Out to eat up the world they are Some even with their part time rhythmetry They try to devour All the world in its quarry. As far as folk memories go It all started with your poetry You began the story With your thoughts and symbols That made word pottery. And now here you are... Alone in the corner of your damp old room Away from the gaily lights and festivities And all that togetherness aside, Facing lifes hostilities. Theyre celebrating the celebrities The copycats, the pure idiots idiosyncrasy Those who are mere parasites Of your clamorous eanesty. But yet the world must wait for you The poet The primordial rebel To come and reclaim the throne That to you it belongs truly. Cut down on your self publishing expenses Those books dont earn you a dime All that sacrilege put aside You could easily afford a three time meal, Happily! But proving wrong the idioms of the saints You practice ‘dharma in an empty stomach growling You are the saint where all saints are folly The original rebel Indeed, dreaming suits the poet only.
Posted on: Tue, 28 Jan 2014 06:22:09 +0000
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