The Plight!

Initially, I thought
I was borne for the occasion
In celebration of life
No matter how I do look like
A clown, a tramp or anything
But,
Looking at the plight of these poems
I think
I am lucky
Even to fancy this look
Of varied misdemeanors within our struggle
Of a chorus
Though in tatters!
Unluckily for my poems
Their plight, I can’t grasp:
No one reads!

Are they that bad? Or
A lousy scream of few scattered words
In its many faces, some volte and some lewd;
Are they the worst form of reprisal
Like verbal tirade of soured dreams
Or like words conjoined like Siamese twins
For people to despise in heart
Yet pretending a heap of cheap similes?


Oh no!
You all seem to know me and my poems
Within its many dead incarnations,
The flirt of the dreamy town
With corrugated shilling of a beggar
And my poems, as they be read as my soul
I can only breathe them
Though the haze of lies and pretensions
Like such a poem and its easy price
In praises and contemplation!
But my poems
I swear, bleeds in your adorable flacks.