The Last Poem I'll Ever Write
The Last Poem I'll Ever Write


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,
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.