Saturday

Stillborn

Some poems are stillborn,
They take birth,
to live as bitter memories
in the poet's head.

He will write a few more,
this poet of garrulous metaphors,
but that will not remedy
the times his ovaries failed.

Sad, sickening,
full of clotting creativity.
They struggle their way out,
breathing their last.
Failing at the first glimpse
of the poets poisonous critique.

They lash out
for air, before judgment
strangles their beauty.
Leaving them drab and helpless,
like a fish born on an alkaline shore.

5 comments:

Chit said...

good

Sagar said...

Chit~ Thanks.

Fingers said...

I agree with you on this, Mr. Poet.
Some poems I write too, when I'm half asleep or half awake and I read them to myself and remind myself to write them down first thing when I'm fully awake. But when I wake up, the poems have evaporated, left only some traces behind and become seemingly insignificant.
What to do?

Sagar said...

Fingers~ The thing to do I guess, is to write them down when you are half asleep or half awake. :)

RustyNeurons said...

Beautiful!
I love this poem - my feelings exactly when I fail to write what I wanted to.

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