A Poet in Making

It is surprising how unexpressed feelings just turn into a verse,

Sometimes they are words of wisdom, sometimes love and sometimes a curse.

When words of love fall on deaf ears,

And there is no one who can silent your daemons and curb your fears.

You start to think, you don’t need a voice,

After all you can’t even scream, you have to maintain “the poise”.

Don’t tell them what makes you cry, what makes you laugh, what makes you sad,

You know you are supposed to be good, you’ve been tamed, you can’t be mad.

“Emotionally stable”, that’s the fancy name they give to this condition,

They only understand the notes and the pitch, simply ignoring the pain in your musical rendition.

You aren’t a charmer; you haven’t learnt how to keep someone hooked,

Because if you were, you wouldn’t have been in this state but already booked.

You aren’t one of those women dented and painted,

Their scent alone has made some men die and some have fainted.

They are the ones, who would sheepishly enter you lives,

And make men forget that they have their own girlfriends and wives.

Over the years you have just learnt to be yourself,

And soon you will be forgotten like a rose squished inside a book on a dusty shelf.

Sick of being ignored by these lifeless mortals, you started to write,

When words inside you couldn’t bear the bottleneck, you gave up the fight.

One fine day you chose to type about all that makes you upset,

And as you wrote, tears rolled down your cheeks like a leaking faucet.

Someone who read it said, “You write whatever; just to make it rhyme,

How much would these poems make, a cent or maybe a little more than a dime?”

What they didn’t understand was, these poems weren’t composed to make money,

They were just an outlet for the anguish, so that I could be “emotionally stable”, just another dummy.

It is sad to know that most people would never feel the way I feel,

They wouldn’t see the angry bloody red sky; they would only see it as a blue and teal.

And since I can see it, I know, I am just like the sky;

Every time it is mundane and grey, people ask, “WHY?”

Same is the case with me,

They see my smile and overlook the melancholy.

Sometimes when I write, they say it is just too long; reading it will take some time,

Surprisingly by the time they finish reading, I am back to being the mannequin, I am just fine.