This is the last time I'll be picking up this pen, the last time I'll be hearing the scratch of nib against the paper.
A lot has happened in my life, ranging from heartbreaks to failures. Achieving my dreams to all of it crumbling down when the greed consumed my soul.
I've attained liver spots on my hand, the same place where scars were before, the scars which marked my life and it's journey.
See, when I was young, I was a great believer in vanity, the shining and dazzling things always captured my heart. Lasting forever was a dream come true - even if it was a wish wrapped up in a safety blanket.
As my life went on, the autopilot kicked in, with each day feeling the same and my heart always yearning to connect with others, trying to understand what's in their head.
Going through all that, I've always aspired to be alive, to be there for others. If only to heal their hearts and then watch it fall apart.
Well, now it ain't coming true. During my younger years, when I was vain, I wanted to be buried, with a headstone to be present for others to visit.
Now, as I write for the last time, I'm penning it for the first and last time, on how my soul has changed. I would like to step towards the empty space, linger in the air. I would like to be cremated, my ashes lost up in the wind.
Let me lose control for once, enter your hearts and heal you. For I'll be present in memories then, rather than stone.
That's my last wish and desire. That's how I'll keep my promise of being there for you. For all of you.
Poetry teaches rebellion like it taught me to end a sentence with a preposition or break the barrier of colour, gender, culture and sexual preference
I know, I write naive, it’s too simple But kudos to me, because it appeals to people
I can’t be all diplomatic and subtle My poems will hit you in the face Like a falling shuttle
My poetry is traffic With too many words and feelings jammed In my throat On the road to my tongue
I mean no disrespect But poetry in its purest form to me Is like ripping my heart out of my chest And feel it near on paper
I know technique, structure and format is a big deal But I can’t sugarcoat how I feel
It’s not like im committing a crime At least this poem rhymes
With my nose on the verge of bleeding and my hands unsteady I will state the obvious, repeating what you have heard already
I know dear audience at open mics, in competitions You will discover that cliche Never goes out of Fashion Poets in a queue, embodiment of imitation and repetition
But you mock and never use constructive criticism You don’t understand what a person learns from observation
You think why pay a poet for a few minutes, he just a Vella entertainer But it’s hours and weeks and months of practice to take high rate of speech or over come shutter
You might see that poem about self harm As seeking pity You might feel it to be words decked up to look pretty
But people find comfort in each other’s pain You can’t deny suffering entertains
And somewhere down the lane If you listen to us often You won’t even realise When you learned to emphasise With homosexuals and their fears And hear the monsters A schizophrenic encounters
I know you might even consider spoken words as poetry Call it “prose in a hurry” But fun fact, it was practiced in, Greece, Africa, Arabia Even before you defined what was ‘literacy’? Or what made something “literary”
We are just continuing a tradition A religion of thought and expression Bending rigid rules according to our convenience We are literary evolution
Dear poets Let’s write crap because it makes good fertiliser Let’s fuel our voices with truth And make it stronger
So when they say, Whatever they want to We won’t stop, We will continue
Because we are world’s acknowledged legislators The rebel, misfits, call us whatever.