I sit down
before you
to pen you
down.
But the scribbles
slick away
farther
deeper
and in you
they drown.
Like a story
never told,
A fag never held,
A fire never sparked,
my words - O those word -
had never had anything up and stirred.
I look up to the skies
and Gods
taking shelter:
why do we have to walk together
when we have nothing common to nurture?
Me and the Gods.
They look me down, discarding my bleats:
Life has no redundant pleats.
They why do you digress,
without thinking twice,
of you progress?
Progress? They conceit.
What do they know of it?
Does one fight tossed out
make you decrepit?
My question to you, milord:
Is a story unwritten,
not worthy of recognition?
A cigarette unlit,
not desirable of strong hold?
They answer not.
Too busy to entertain
a stray commen’.
My ink is dried away
My pen is cast aside
Left here,
A pound or two of flesh,
Through which I sneer,
Upon the potent
Whose every utter
beheads me further.
Why not then
should I hate him,
since he seems to hate me in return.
I got to find the fire
to burn my desire,
but the Gods,
- damn! so jealous of men -
would let loose none of the spark
for at stake is, their very kiosk.
Ah!
Cowards,
accusing me of cowardice.
Ever - ever in my eternal life -
didn’t get a slice
of reprieve.
Yet
Never – never in my fleeting life –
I was found
Worthy of apprise.
Life proved to be a pun
Me,
made and unmade and made,
for their coy fun.
A word can never write itself down
A God can never be turned into a clown.
Life is grey,
a half way between white and brown.
Gods rebuke,
I am one, you are many,
You are cold, I shiny.
I fight back,
I am pleasant, you are clammy.
Only from my will,
Your existence sprang on-hill.
Dare you not challenge my mettle,
I only willed your prophet
And his settle.
Let me have no words,
Yet my voice will rise
For my will is vowel,
Yours’ only surds.
