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Ananya B

Drama

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Ananya B

Drama

The Last Poem I'll Ever Write

The Last Poem I'll Ever Write

5 mins
173


The first poem I ever wrote,

It was less poetry and more of a letter,

To all the people in my life that I cared about,

I wanted to tell them about all the things that they did for me which I was grateful about

And I wrote it down in the most coherent way possible,

With syllables placed carefully down every sentence,

With every definitive measure of spaces around each one of them,

I tried to explain in mundane words,

All the twisted emotions that distorted my mind.

I tried to make sense

In a familiar language,

How much I adored them.

Deciphering whatever I could from the paralysing static that played inside the four corners of my bedroom,

Everynight.

And I had made up my mind,

It had to be the perfect poem.

Like a photograph in time captured in a sonnet.


But no matter what I tried,

I was just not able to compress everything down to some ink blotches on a piece of paper.

So I gave up that night.

Only to see,

The sunrise above the horizon,

Another day,

Another morning,

Another attempt,

And I repeated, almost tediously,

Because I was so sure,

For the first time in my life,

That it was all it was gonna take,

A perfect poem.

I was 15.

A thousand poems later,

still not one that would just be enough,

Not even close.

To articulate every possible little detail that I had experienced, every memory and every opinion that I had yet to convey.

I have 

So much to say 

But only barely viable pieces that come out,

Here and there.

Cause I'm always running late or someone else is,

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rgb(0, 0, 0);">Cause they care about me but they have other plans today,

Cause it's almost 3 am and they can hardly keep their eyes open,

Cause there's a call on the other end and they say its really important.

Cause they just don't care.

Someone once asked me,

Why do I only write when I'm sad?

The back of my throat burns when I can hardly form sounds that would communicate to someone that I missed them,

If today I had to confront my father,

I know my knees would quiver and my eyes would swell,

As I would try to explain 

How much pain

I endured for the last 18 years of my life

In silence.


I wish I had made enough noise,

I wish my voice would stop trembling,

With every deranged thought, 

Every sting he made me feel

I wish I wouldn't cherry pick sentences to make the agony sound any less than how it felt the first time I watched myself bleed,

Every time his voice,

Louder than my own,

Would vanquish me.

If I had the choice

I'd write him a poem instead.

Because poetry did not need to be loud to be heard.

4 years later,

I realised,

It wasn't possible to frame everything in merely a couple of lines,

Maybe I need a collection,

Or a book.



The last poem I'll ever write,

I hope passion resonates within every letter,

I hope it channels everything that I once had to say

In the most eloquent paragraphs.

Because the first poem I ever wrote,

The first time I did not want to be a connoisseur of silence anymore,

The first time I needed to be vehemently heard,

To break out of my solitude of thoughts.

The first poem I ever wrote,

It was a suicide note.



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