POETRY | NAPOWRIMO
My Dying Art, My Dying Dream
NaPoWriMo Series Day-8
It’s not that I’m angry,
It’s not that I despise existence,
but the presence of all this substance,
however tiny and insignificant in
an ever-expanding galaxy,
all this facade of an electric life,
scratching diaries, looping in habits,
inhabiting shoeboxes off of credits,
hoping to capitalise on your ART someday,
and having to write down your history,
find a sense of belonging in confinement,
and consciously breathing forty times a day,
to affirm you’re still here,
to remind them you were here
in a corner with your words!
when you’ve spun around this
heliocentric ball of fire for long,
every day becomes ‘the winter of your discontent’
every night – either an emblem of metaphysical glory
in the arms of people eating your illusion,
your bite of reality to feed a nation of the idle,
or lonesome, dwelling on a dozen of epiphanies
to feed your hysteria –
“I can not create, I’ll die before I reach my peak”
and you wonder……
