A Poet Poem by Upanshu Mishra

I’m a poet
And i am counting my last breaths.
But unlike other artists, who shift from this plane,
my life doesn’t flash before my eyes.
May be because my art is already dead,
Just like the abstract almighty has been,
For the last few centuries.

I’m a poet,
And i wrote with red ink,
The ink is responsible for weakening my already frail constitution.
i am not meant to be imprisoned,
Yet, here i am a caged parrot in a forest.

Yes, i’m a poet,
And i’ve thrown away the blue ink
(Blue was too close to black anyways!)
As my words now fail me,
And my love lovingly hates me,
Eyes that have dried up,
Threaten to flow, showering the same blue ink,
That seems black due to saturation.
Mourning as my art breathes her last.

But i’m a poet
Stranded in a field of daisies,
Morbidly watching poetry pick
The yellow suns for my crown
(Or my grave…)

And so i’m a poet,
Trapped in this white space,
Manacled by the crimson chains
Locked behind the cerulean bars
Happily scribbling with white ink
All over the white walls that surround me.