The Frustrated Poet

The same chirping morning birds,
The same morning sickness,
The unchanged inauguration everyday-
It bores my soul, repels me whole;
I live in a rusty cage; I sleep on its edge
I don’t know why I dwell in it
When its bars are broken;
Willing captivity is my survival token
I pound my head on its hedge
And nothing new I feel in it-
The same pain and same sprouting blood,
Same cry from my tongue and
I get bored of it… I get bored of it-
I sit at leisure with my pen,
I’ve smaller value than a hatching hen
As I don’t feed your famished belly
I keep scripting my lyrics in vain.

My pen keeps scratching the pages
I make them victim of my crazy usage
White paper turns dirty with my words
Still nothing change my world,
Same rising sun- same singing birds
And I get bored of it, it bores my core,
I roll my frustration on some distant shore-
The same plastic smiles I bear daily,
The same smoky air I inhale and
The same chattering of a group of apes;
I can’t put up with this world so silly,
I feel the madness of a barred rebel
I cry, I weep, I howl, I moan, I groan
As none appreciates my poems
I wish I could reproduce delicious novel;
A novel to feed thousands of folks
Gorged with my lunacy but all dreamy talks!

My blunt teeth tears a brown fibrous bread,
A sense of vomiting fills up my head,
I keep chewing it like a chewing gum
A series of starving faces floats by my eyes
The same boring tear rolls by my cheek and
I get a fruitless yield, it salts my sweet bread
This was emotional case- but realism unread!
Impulsive self provokes me to incise my vein
And conclude this somnolent awake state-
But how can I bear that shameless bare pain;
I was never a gutless in the ocean of sorrow,
I’m waiting for the fire in me to ignite
In this hopeless frozen furrow, so narrow
Yet, I get bored of my impatient mood
I lose my stream of optimist thought
All these seems so vague to me, meanwhile
My pen and paper rolls on some hazy riot...

- littleWriter