This poem too is going to fail me
Though I think every time, before I go to sit to write a poem
That this poem will take me off and I will float on top like a chunk of cream
But it never happens
I gyrate and the water inside a poem gets muddy
And the poem remains below the line
Hidden under the surface
As I could not use metaphor nor could I use expression
That can hit the heart of modern men
My style is boring, using the tone and texture of the age old
Movement is lazy and that too is without rhythm
Thoughts are childish and the themes are very poor
Whatever stories are there those are not interwoven properly
So the charms are lost
I wander in a place like desert and
Sink in a place like pond and feel out of air
as if I do not know swimming
I jump like a blind man and fall where there are no flowers
but only thorns
Like a lamb man I stagger
And reach a place where I face only storms
Like this poem this poetic life is going to be doomed
Though each time I think
This life of a poet would bring me peace and calm
Instead of giving me soothing soul and cool heart
This life eats my sleep, kills my rest
Consequently blood pressure rises
In the blood sugar level increases
This poem and this poetic life fail me again and again
With about 1700 flowers in your basket, this must have been addressed to Quick-Jacks. Enjoyed it.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem successfully reached me. It is nearly the same thoughts that occur to me. Wonderfully conceived and written, and deserving of a 10