History will have you believe
the likes of me
are forlorn lovers
wandering into the abyss
tragic souls whose
loneliness and sorrow
spill into verses
that our poetry is a refuge
for a broken heart
and a restless mind
but the price of poetry
is more than a stereotype

We live in metaphors
trees are fossilized giants
their branches, medusa’s hair
the morning fog is god’s wrath
the mountains, Earth’s love note to the sky
While they sip wine at a Sunday brunch
we see a chalice of capitalist blood
their mealtime conversation
of an illness wreaking havoc
is a prompt
a Goliath-like monster, undefeated
because David hasn’t been born yet

We find a muse
in animals and men alike
inspiration in religion and philosophy
In a poet’s world
Tigers burn bright and ravens speak
lovers perish in their foolish misgivings
good triumphs over evil
brothers take on each other
in a battle of dharma
and you, my love
are immortalized within the verses
I strung together

Sometimes we live for the applause
building confidence with every ‘irshaad’
validated with every ‘waah waah’
and then there are poems
we’re too afraid to show the world
for they will expose us
the untapped potential
and the deep-rooted regret
the insecurity, the loss, and the fear
raw conversations we had
with our previous selves
too personal to revisit

Poets are called hopeless romantics
talented highbrows with impeccable vocabulary
who talk in rhyme
truth be told, we are lonely
though unlike the way you’ve perceived
the price of poetry is solitude
not as a physical state of being
but because each poet is alone
in the way they view the world
so poetry flows when they have a dialogue
with the only person who understands,
themselves.