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Sayenath Khan

Drama Classics Inspirational

4  

Sayenath Khan

Drama Classics Inspirational

Confessions of a Poet

Confessions of a Poet

2 mins
223


Don't call me a poet yet.

If you will know what I wrote,

And why I wrote,

Letting the paper to be,

A carrier of my sorrows,

That life had smuggled into my soul,

Unknowingly, unnoticed,

The ink had borrowed,

What made me nothing more,

Than a few glittery words,

And a void so hollow.


Don't call me a poet yet.

The first time I held the pen,

To paint the pain,

In blue and black,

A letter I wrote,

To the boy,

Who broke my heart at sixteen.

I had been all but a jittering mess,

Hiding in the paradiso of words,

Seeking solace.


Don't call me a poet yet.

I had lived like a gypsy,

For the little life I have lived,

And yearned for the love,

Which wasn't meant to be,

Peace with the souvenirs that,

Were never destined to be mine,

But the paper,

Never made it feel impossible.

It was wine to my endless days of turmoil,

Answers to my prayers.

It would seduce me,

With its potential to absorb every tear I bleed with ink,

And like a lovely mistress,

Tapered it into a thing of beauty.


Don't call me a poet yet.

Every word I pen,

Is embedded with a lie,

That I have fascinated,

Looking for a escape,

Cause the truth the reality had held too long,

Pierced my heart,

Like a fusillade of bullets.

All I crave was an embracing arm,

That could hold me when everything goes wrong,

Or a shoulder I could at least cry my nights on,

But then,

Paper came along when no one did.

It let me love,

Whomever I wanted to,

In its vicinity,

Only I ruled the worlds I created.

I mastered the oceans and it's tides.

With paper and pen,

I was God-like,

In my own little heaven and fool's paradise.


Don't call me a poet yet.

I never wanted to be one,

I am all but a selfish soul,

Searching for joy,

In the smallest of moments,

Manipulating the pain with the power pen bestows me,

I crave for a blissful rain,

To drench me more,

In the obsession,

Of happiness,

That I have evolved,

And to let those who read my words,

Smile a little long.


Smiles are miracles,

I have heard my mom say,

And I want to be the reason behind one,

When it's not quite someone's day.

Sorrows come and go easy,

Happiness plays spoil sport for sure,

I never wanted to be a poet,

Just a soul craving a happy, hearty Bonjour!

Being a poet is a condition,

I have heard the wise say,

A obsession I have grown to love,

To create smiles with the time ticking by.

So, don't call me a poet yet.

(I am just a sailor in search of joy.)


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