poetry is a lie

whene'er i pick a quill,

a thousand words yet to be born

intone a fearless song all night long.

though as the raw ink is about to defile a blank sheet,

a glimpse of a papery child curling numb

amidst haunting fears

appears and then disappears.

the child afraid of screams has poems with no words,

for someone told him - verses are nothing but piercing screams.

with the tongue full of papercuts, the child says - 

i’m not a poet, for poetry is a lie - 

some random words that evoke emotions.

though, some lies help dying souls survive,

as if poesy were the last breath 

blown into their mouths in hope 

they might revive. 

i'm not a poet, because poetry is a lie - 

because words can’t make any difference to bland lives. 

though, some words are powerful enough 

to make people throw knives 

that would’ve slit their wrists, 

for pain couldn't’ve sufficed their empty lives. 

i'm not a poet, for poetry is a lie -
these verses are arranged rhythmically, 

but can't be supported by one logical line. 

i'm not a poet, for poetry is a lie. 

i'm on my deathbed and poets are asking what kind of mattress I'd like. 

destined to be strong, the child had god tear out his lachrymal.

***

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