The Poet

Far beyond the maze of words 

That ensnared him into loading his pen with ink 

And made him run it over

Sheets as fresh as blades of grass

There is a boy who doesn’t want to write:

His whole life was about putting his thoughts to paper 

And letting them bleed till they materialised into 

worlds that existed only in his head 

And sometimes behind the doors he closed.

But now he lays down the gun 

With which he shot down his demons 

Whose blood made the stories his heart sang for him 

And says that he 

He doesn’t want to write.

He hid his journals somewhere out of sight 

And thought he could let the pain out of his mind 

And try he did, and die he did 

The death of his brightest smile.

Like a bird who built her nest into a cage 

In the confines of his own mind,

The grey walls bare and unforgiving 

His palms pressed against them, feeling for a crack 

Waiting for some light

The boy says he doesn’t want to write. 

His faith hangs onto a fraying rope

Despondence breaking the dams to rush into a river 

Of sorrow, of the inability of words 

To tell himself what he wants to speak

Or to tell me, through his letters 

The little windows to his soul,

The musings of his mind, if it were musing at all.

Sometimes his mouth opens 

And he lets me trace the words on his lips 

They sing, to the tune of his melancholia 

That dejected, he doesn’t want to write. 

The boy sits alone in his cell 

Mulling over the things he left unsaid, unwillingly

Rolling them into a dough of handicap 

Eating them up, to keep himself from retching 

The liquid remains of his shaken hope

Heart suspended from the very same rope. 

Now the tears well in his beautiful eyes 

And the ink of his poetry runs dry 

He curls his mind into a fetal position 

The poet says he doesn’t want to write.

And so,

I’ll do it for him. 

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