I am no poet, I never was
I write cause I don't know what else I am good at
I write because it makes me feel like my time was worthwhile
My poetry is me and all my gargantuan pride.
And as I shift in my chair, mahogany and carved
With a glass of wine and some magazine nondescript
I chance upon something by a writer far better
Someone of my age, but of more piercing wisdom.
Envy keeps me up all night, envy is the fuel to my fire
It is the witch that cooks up gruesome potions over the dungeon fire
A potion that changes colours from red, green to blue
Blue is the colour of my melancholic room.
Red are the papers astray, green are the books asunder
I bite my pen for a stroke of wonder
As if it would kickstart a hidden part of my brain
As if a hidden genius will come out to play.
As the gloom of the blue subsides to a whimsical pink
Like the sun before sleep shows off wonderful sheens
If you care to look in you'd see a hunched-up figure
Scribbling lines while murmuring songs to her mirror.
YOU ARE READING
Casablanca
PoesíaPosting this work was an impulsive decision. Casablanca was originally meant to be a song. But it wound up being something more akin to a poem. And I thought that maybe somebody somewhere will end up liking it for whatever it is.
