Poem | Anish Vyavahare

Source : freeimages.com

On Being a Poet


On days when words come to you like luscious
grapes deseeded and deskinned,

You feel intelligent, accomplished, vain,
pretentious, like a poet, an insider.

Elitist.

With airs, pointy shoes, English pipe, upturned
nose.

Monocle.

You feel intelligent, accomplished, vain,
pretentious, like a poet.

With airs, earthy kurta, imported leather, shabby
hair.

Monotone.

You feel icky.

You feel defeated.

You feel the pain of so many other poets if not all
poets.



You forgive yourself.

You couldn't even manage being yourself.

You became a character, a trope, your fate;

The sawed off part of your dream.

You couldn't brake before the finish line.



You forgive yourself.

After you are sober again

And you have shed at least some words.