Smruti Swarupa Mahapatra

India

I have got words in my soul just like arts in the shades of poetry
An old school with an young heart
I am a dreamer, neither lost nor found, just waiting for a story worth dreaming for
In short, I am just a perfect mess

Message from Writer

From my truthful heart flows my love.... With my pen I speak it all. My pen , the extension of my soul. My pen is my voice, the passage of my heart, of my every thought, of words just whispering in my heart, off words I’m scared to confess. They say, pen is mightier than a sword. Yes, through you, I can say everything, Word for word.

THIS ISN'T A POEM

September 15, 2020

FREE WRITING

2
I don't have any poems for you,
For poems aren't my friends anymore.

My heart is no longer the sanctum of elegy,
My emotions no longer give birth to poesy.
My sentiments no longer takes shape of couch,
Like, life is an unending gloomy evening with no hope of a new epoch.

Poems are not my mirrors anymore
For I am as broken as glass full of fissure.
You are the complexity of my pen
You aren't a deceit, knows my pen.

My mind is a morass,
It has divided me into 17 different parts.
With time,
Some 16 of them might turn against me.

But the only part which shall stay resolute,
Is the one that belongs only to you.
Paper is the garden and pen is the till,
Still the flowers in this garden refuse to be metrical.

The flowers don't ooze gentleness or beauty
They are not fearful, for they are fiery.
I no longer mould my fervour
To make them comprehensible.

My emotions are reckless and unashamed,
No longer fearing being arbitrated,
For that what seems to be eternal penchant,
I am afraid it is evanescent.

Why are we here?
Why are we on different ends of a verse?
Why are we stuck here?
This isn't our home, is it?

My poems have taken new contours,
My words are no longer pleasant but ferocious.
You might try to compose a song out of them,
But I am afraid they hold any rhythm.

I am on a journey to find my true psyche,
Still you are the path I take and shelter I pursue.
Our conversations often create dubiety,
Leave them, let's not waste time looking for clarity.

All I can offer you is myself,
Although I have already lost myself.
And you aren't too a stranger to me either,
I am aware, I have never been rather,
But 'I' am all I have to offer.

And listen,
This isn't a poem.


 

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  • September 15, 2020 - 11:26pm (Now Viewing)

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