I’m Thinking of Ending Things
IThe 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
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Written on 2026-06-04 at 17:48
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