I'm the poet, I shouldn't be
Dear ....er,
(1) I'm a poet today and I know your heart doesn't choose to see me so. From the neglected scribbler, to a rebellious poet; from a "Wait just for the flowers to bloom," to "I'd collect falling leaves as fossils," zenosyne is in my favour.
(2) The creases on the paper of the first of poems you crushed, calls out for recognizing the pauses from in between those creases today. Pauses. They make zenosyne real. The pauses in my poem, the pauses we brought between us, the pauses we look desperately for, from time. That poem you crushed down then, holds me a better poet today. I never forget pauses now. And you never forget creases too.
(3) You should have read the poem I texted you, giving an extra money away, and trying to put up bricks together in building the bridge that would break the wall of zenosyne, between us. But, don't you read it, now. This night, I would arise as a better poet, trying not to add on bricks, but to probably break it down on to your side, and making the process simpler. I'd write an ode to zenosyne, if you would sense it better today.
(4) How many leaves were you able to crush and burn down, as I collected and wrote down a wish? "Wait just for the flowers to bloom, not for leaves to leave their homes." There was just a dawn between both, ....er! A dawn, where you asked me to accept zenosyne to not be real and today, I accept the dawn to tighten your zenosyne sense.
(5) I'd write today, not wishes, but odes to 'em. My odes would not start with an "Oh" and an exclamation, straining the fragility of the leaves I collected on my way in search of a home. I'll begin with their names, as my wishes are light enough to be carried away.
(6) After all these stumblings, there are things as constant as the stars' resilience to stay there despite all disturbances to be seen shining. The windows you threw my poems out of,
the fireplace you burnt my wish-fossils in, the zenosyne I tried not to contaminate and still break, the resilience of your parenting- they are things with stagnancy and no death.
(7) When I find my home one day, there would be corners filled with stardust from those stars, which I see breaking apart after every breath I take in and you give out. You have cut out a rope I had been holding on to- the rope of suppressed belief of zenosyne. Mid Novembers feel like autumns, just because I travelled forward, leaving behind your rage of depreciating my sense of time and zenosyne.
For all the poems, wishes and non existence you've addressed to me, I owe you big time. Time, again. I owe you the zenosyne stressor.
Yours,
A poet you wished you never read,
Your ......er.
~ ©️ Sapphire Stella.
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AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Hi!
Becoming A Poet, is my compilation of my journey towards becoming the poet, I am today. The neglects faced, the ignorance threw upon, the wars fought, the poems gone unwritten, everything finds it's way into this book.
The life Of a Poet, gifted to all Poets out there, by, the Poet in me, Becoming~ A Poet.
Don't forget to turn the star orange and do drop in your comments on what do you expect on the next part!
Loves,
Ms. Stella 🤍
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BECOMING A POET
Poetry"I am a poet. I write to promise that syllables hear, every voice gone unheard, and rhymes give a voice to every word silenced, and the universe within watches every moment of life, gone unseen." Becoming A Poet, is my compilation of my journey towa...
