It happened yet again.
How many times
after you really understand?
Manipulated, exploited–excruciating pain,
for you they all turned out to be games.
In a land with no beaches,
Mountains I heard and yes, trees with leeches.
‘It’s just a statement’–but times changed.
And so did the seasons.
When temperatures dropped below
I only had cold dry winds that blew,
taking me away from us, from me and you.
The city no longer existed – the memories, laughs or the trees,
Nor did the bling that connected it with you.
And then the chains, the winters came-
the new year that brought you.
You blame me for knowing.
But how would I know?
Oh yes, the hints. The cues,
The needles kept pricking,
and the time kept ticking
Until one day
I lost my friend–I lost you.
Only the climax was,
I was this close to changing you.
I heard her say, ‘I feel like a badly written poem.’
I told her to thank goodness, at least someone wrote her. But she wasn’t satisfied.
It’s better to feel like a badly written poem than a poem that has never been written. A poem that waits for her story to be told, shared or simply written in a private journal for the sake of satisfaction of jotting it down.
A poem that cries to be written, no matter if it is crumpled later and thrown in a corner of the room, picked up in the morning and thrown away in the garbage. It’s okay to be a badly written poem.
At least being part of the garbage would mean someone would recycle it, give it a new life.
A badly written poem with a new life, ready to inspire the one who buys the paper.
I had told her.
A badly written poem is not as bad as a poem which has not been written at all.