How sweet it must be To be loved by a poet Beauty and laughter immortalised In honeyed prose For those Whom you will not know Whom you will not meet Only those whom you will dream of Only those who will sigh over Your grace, your love From the honeyed mouth Of the poet who had chosen you As their muse
How sour it must be To be hated by a poet Ugliness and rage immortalised In destroyed prose For those Whom you will know Who you will meet Only those who will see you Only those who will cry over Your disdain, your wrath From the dry mouth Of the poet who had chosen you As their muses
The pantheon of muses The poet possesses Will never reveal themselves to the reader But the reader will already know the glory and infamy Of the muses the poet possesses The lovers Perfection personified Only known to the unconscious mind With faces unknown The enemies Imps of imperfection Already known to the waking realm With more faces than that which can be counted
How bitter it must be To be a poet Glorifying and horrifying mistakes In quickened prose For those Whom you love Whom you hate Only those who will read of you Only those who will ignore you My emotions, my consequences From the careless mouths Of the ones who had chosen the poet As their acquaintance
I just wonder Where the old dreams Go to die? Do they ether away Into the cosmos? Or they just Lie down somewhere Bubbling up as clouds In the sky. Or do they Filter out as Butterflies of my thoughts . Are they chained too To vicious cycle of Death and rebirth ? Transcending from one Subconscious to another. Amidst the storm of thoughts Another conjures up from the vast emptiness with yet another trail of beliefs and dis beliefs
I write what I see, Because I am blind. I write what I hear, But I am deaf. I write what I feel, But paralyzed. I write what I smell, In my burnt nose. I write what I taste, The only sense left, And thank the day, Because it can be worse.