Map
Map
Of course, I know,
It doesn't makes sense.
That's it's just a an obsession.
Trust me guys, I do realize.
Fiction cannot be a profession.
Seldom pays your bills,
Rarely calms you down.
It creates what you cannot find.
Makes you a joke,
Amongst white collared folks.
Wrecks havoc on,
Your peace of mind.
But I, my friends,
Am an outsider
Trying my best,
To fall in line.
The ancient mariner,
Begging for an ear
To end this self imposed exile.
A desperate guy,
Needing desperate measures.
Like stamping tears,
On self addressed letters.
A hopeless romantic,
With limited means,
Who's smile doesn't appear.
Until it bleeds -
From a quivering nib
Down sparkling sheets
Finding solace in poetry.
And so here upon the canvas,
Of my mediocrity.
With limited crayons,
I donate what I need.
Drawing time and again,
Without motives of gains.
Portraits of my varying identity.
Maybe one fine day
Below a tiny black cross
Over the map - of my mind.
You'll find a box,
With my name on it,
And find my identity inside.