My poem got rejected again.
It was the thirteenth time, I
Was near the river watching the water
Flowing like Vivaldi or Beethovan
Tchaikovsky perhaps but all those
Famous quotes of unknown poets
They remind me how to die with
Potential and unavailable fame
Unknowingly you close your eyes
Parrot, you're a bird, you mimic
My words and i mimic your love
For love I never had, what I had
I lost. My fame? It's an unadorned jewel
In the mahogany box that was lost
In the tsunami. My marimba played
Debussy, and enchanted- I wrote
Another dying poem about gasping bird
Who tried to catch some rain under the Cruel sun.
It never had water still it begged for it.
I killed the bird. The corpse reside in me.
Pages after pages were tattooed with ink
Tears, blood... did anyone listen?
Maybe they will. Like they did to Van
Or other painters. Their art too killed them
And we think art gave them life! Huh!
The autopsy says otherwise.
So I'll go on the same way, I'll
Write a Posthumous poem
To earn a penny to buy some food
Or drink water inside the pool
I'll be on mountain top, bird,
my poems won't be orphan anymore.
I'll give them a parent, a name of their own.
They will be celebrated after I leave, for the world cherish the autopsy cause it cost lessly more.
Come parrot, let's write again, I'll teach you the words , and you be my publisher
As I close my eyes you throw the words
To suburbia, to mountain top, to all the people
Who rejected me. Bombard them with my thoughts, cruel , cruel one.
Tell them I wrote a bird, a dead poem and summoned its soul on earth.
You're a minister of mimicry, you copy my words! How dare? They always take my manuscript and run it with their name.
How foolish... I shall die first so that my fame arise.
For the world cherish the dying heart rather when it's alive.
YOU ARE READING
Mountain Souvenirs- A collection of Emotions
RandomNo parts of this book is published elsewhere.
