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 misdemeanours 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 a few scattered words
In its many faces, some volte and some lewd;
Are they the worst form of reprisal
Like a 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 the 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, they bleed in your adorable flaks.