I’m Thinking of Ending Things

I

The prophet who barely profits
Off his prophecies, stuck in
Prosody that builds
Songs no one reads
Much less sings.

It only brings
Suffering, a bitter kind.
He is alone.
The light once shone
On him grows dim,
Dimmer now.
It’s completely dark.

II

If you wanted to write a lyric
Why couldn’t you have written lyrics?
Learned how to play a guitar?
Tried to rap? You’d have gone far.

But no, you chose poetry.
Who gives a fuck ‘bout poetry?
Even poets barely read it.
You could sit well were you Edith

Instead you’re Sameen Shakya. Who
The fuck is Sameen Shakya? You
Who gave your life to poetry:
Sand dweller studying forestry.


III

Stop now.
I can’t.
Stop please.
I can’t.
You don’t have to.
I must.
Who said so?
No one.

But I can’t stop.
I won’t stop.
I can’t stop.
I won’t stop.

It’s a curse.
Achoo!
Bless you.

It’s a curse.
Stop it!
Won’t do.


IV

I’ve not the heart to say it loud
But what I’ve done in life, I’m proud
Of it. I’ve not much wit or glamor,
I hide sometimes and often clamor,
But still, I’ve tasted death, twice fold,
And know I’ll most likely die old
With pen and paper in each hand.
I never stopped, you understand?
I’ll never stop. Oh, even if
You give me up… You already did?
Well, that’s okay. This isn’t for you.
Well, then for whom? The ones who croon
Long past I’ve dusted up the tomb,
Long yet to even leave the womb.
My songs I sing for every poet
Who comes after me to know it—
That I lived so they could sing.
That’s all the joy I hope to bring.



Poetry by Sameen The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 183 times
star mini Editors' choice
Written on 2026-06-04 at 17:48

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jim The PoetBay support member heart!
Imagine a time before paper and writing tools, your poetry would have been sung, and remembered, and passed from one to another, a living form of poetry, unlike our databased unsung songs.
2026-06-09


Editorial Team The PoetBay support member heart!
Your poem has been chosen to be featured on the home page of PoetBay. Thank you for posting on our poetry website!
2026-06-08


dee quirke
Powerful. It's seems you have to do stuff to have to survive
Keep up the fight
2026-06-06


arquious The PoetBay support member heart!
Still falls the rain
the well remains filled
Still fills the pain
the ink is never chilled

IV is flowing in open mic
of it there's much to like

.
2026-06-05


Melinda K Zarate The PoetBay support member heart!
Well, this scared me at first but ended so wonderfully! Just a couple of weeks ago I wrote a short poem about being "done" with writing. Silly me!

Never, ever stop, please.
2026-06-04


William Hughes The PoetBay support member heart!
I love the tease on Edith Sitwell. As for poetry, Marianne Moore said in her famous poem "Poetry, I too dislike it" and then proceeded to say how much it meant to her. It's one of the oldest writing genres and has never completely been extinguished. Rap is mostly rhymed iambic pentameter. In my favorite poets, such as t.s. Eliot, I'll be reading along and suddenly encounter a line that is so beautiful it makes cry. Seldom can prose do that. Nice stylized poem.
2026-06-04


mickeko The PoetBay support member heart!
This piece reads vulnerable and true.
Don't write for me though. I have a hard time reading things longer than my breath. But, even then, what I do read from you is always worth it.
2026-06-04


Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
I grew concerned seeing the title, but upon reading and following your conversation with yourself(?) determines you had in fact overcome the desire. To be honest (as I'm sure you know) I reckon all modern poets feel this at one time or another. I know I have.
There is a saying I have used before which goes, 'you are where you are because you are meant to be there'. I think this applies in both the spacial sense and the artistic one. How do you explain that? Well, I reckon by just saying, 'because....' :o)
Blessings, Allen
2026-06-04