It's a farce to know not where poetry begins
At the loss of language or
with the language of loss,
Having crept through every familiar thought
and pinning darts at the dead cross.
Or stuffing what you sneer at as the only embryonic truth.
Words have given the lie to theory, today, up on foot .
You ask me what made me take oaths that I could never bear?
Of muting silence through careless words.
Cascading and rippling through everything that was not meant to be fear.
At times even
Blind by eyes I have lived wrong.
Saved judgment too late
And still judged wrong.
And yet…
I long for all those I hated and dreamt to escape from.
These are phases that you detest when you revise with your boiling pulse.
Look, I have cried through scores of un-starry nights.
Don't fall for me then.
There is no language weaved within me. I pen un-poetry.
I ain't your stereotypical man.