Most of us write poems to vent our feelings in some manner, but they sometimes don’t give us the needed refuge from despair. These pieces of ourselves, however, often take the role of a shoulder on which others weep out their burden.
The artist wields her pen, no doubt,
In a bid to make herself better –
But literary sculptures seek out
Similar suffering souls to shelter.
These clouds that seem to drift away
In truth, only leave her high and dry.
Embodied feelings thus go astray;
They rain down elsewhere, where others cry.
This is an add-on to a previous post with the same title! Due credit to Lakshmi from Booksplore – she has lovely articles on her blog! These words are from her repository.
And when in the office, you sit and slog
You are quite sure, your brain’s in a fog
Just as you think, your day’s down in the flush
A poem or two jumps out in a rush…
Elders of ancient tribes have often been heard saying that all kinds of distractions (especially those videos of sleeping kangaroos on that incredibly infamous time-killer, YouTube) come knocking at your door, whilst the days are approaching your end-semester exams. I do not want to argue that statement one bit. When exams approach, I know I am always at my procrastination best (if only they had contests for it, I could have been of some worth). Continue reading
When words pop in your mind like buds in spring,
A different thought is arduous to bring.
You do things that find yourself in a jam,
Like write this poem in the middle of your exam.
As metal glides over pulpy fibres,
Blue hue flows, seeps and rests.
Words from letters,
And letters from
Level lines, troughs and crests.
Feelings buried within thoughts,
Omnipresent signatures over bills,
Mile long equations,
Quick, quiet reminders –
All my needs, my darling fulfils.
She stays cuddled, close to my heart;
In my pocket’s corners, as she lingers;
Ready to scribble
When I hug her close, with my fingers.
P.S. In spite of the lovely service my pen provides, I still subject it to all kinds of terrains – cloth, tissue papers, human skin, and walls to name a few. This poem talks about the joy I draw from writing, and how much just holding a pen soothes my mind.
The poet fills others as she empties herself.
She has the power to wield words that can linger;
She can choose to surpass surrealism.
Instead, she exploits experiences.