A Poet's Hand Poem by Navarun Mallick

Tell me, reader, do I flatter myself,
When I give such a grandiose title to mere words
That I scratch on a piece of worthless paper?
This pen feels uncomfortable in my hand,
As do the stares of my dusty, forlorn works,
Mocking me in the same fashion as the mirror does.
I sometimes look carefully at my hand.
The hand of a supposed poet. I have heard
That poets are those who know
A myriad spectrum of life, to which I am blind.
Poets are those who know pain, and love,
Their hands have been covered in blood at least once,
Either their own, or someone else's.
Mine are only splattered with ugly ink blotches.
My hand is a soft pink on the palm side,
And a coarse brown shell on the other side -
A monkey's hand. I find it amusing
That I, a barely evolved simian,
Dare to pen what I think is God's true design.
How funny. Not even the Devil is as audacious.
Who am I to define poetic beauty?
Who am I to talk of the nature of people?
There are poets who talk of love,
There are some talking about relevant issues.
Some like to talk about themselves, share experience,
And some others often say a word or two on emotions,
Amidst the vast repository of the world's greatest works.
What do I say? How do I say it?
What do I write? Why do I write?
I, who shall never know tears, or pain,
Or love, or happiness, or pure bliss,
Why do I dare to call myself a poet?
For if my hand is indeed a poet's instrument,
Then even a dying deer's wail must be beautiful indeed.