I do not write poems anymore.
Atleast not how I used to.
Like a child abhored
by societal norms.
Ego-centric words filling a void,
devoid of any real meaning.
Circled back to all I lack- inside and out.
Screaming my claim to fame is in my viens,
mine mine mine.
I do not write poems anymore.
Especially not of love.
For now, I see how cryptic love can be,
when losing that fleeting game.
How an open mouth at times,
is not fed for lack of awarness
of the words spewing out.
For now I see that a fondness is never enough
to constitute being in love.
I do not write poems anymore,
not because I simly too good for this chore.
But because I have grown up,
maybe stiff and cold and old old old.
I lost the girlish flair of flame by passion
that drove my mind to ration
my voice into thin stanzas,
toying with depth.
I do not write poems anymore,
that could have been all I said,
but my voice sang on even after death.
May 6
May 6, 2026 at 5:38 PM UTC
I do not write poems anymore.
Atleast not how I used to.
Like a child abhored
by societal norms.
Ego-centric words filling a void,
devoid of any real meaning.
Circled back to all I lack- inside and out.
Screaming my claim to fame is in my viens,
mine mine mine.
I do not write poems anymore.
Especially not of love.
For now, I see how cryptic love can be,
when losing that fleeting game.
How an open mouth at times,
is not fed for lack of awarness
of the words spewing out.
For now I see that a fondness is never enough
to constitute being in love.
I do not write poems anymore,
not because I simly too good for this chore.
But because I have grown up,
maybe stiff and cold and old old old.
I lost the girlish flair of flame by passion
that drove my mind to ration
my voice into thin stanzas,
toying with depth.
I do not write poems anymore,
that could have been all I said,
but my voice sang on even after death.