Let me read out a poem.
Look, I m serious
as I am,
wrapped within poet’s look and style
and wink at nothingness,
attuned with gestures and shrugs
I rhythm words
exactly the way I have spilled here
my little emotions
or whatever,
Ah!!
Didn’t I tell you that,
I am a poet!
Man!
I am honestly serious,
I promise, I am poet!
You know for thirty two years
I exiled myself
in an isolation
bricked my walls in solitudes
to muse upon a thing
poetry.
Isn’t it funny!
But that’s a long tale
of history,
You know, I never bury my days in pasts.
As a poet
I live with the diachronic present,
as now, here is a poem.
Shall I read it to you?
A fresh poem
unpublished yet
I wrote it last night,
A awesome hangover
when I felt
poetry is a thorn
under my tongue,
all were asleep,
except the woman
who was coughing pain
like a poem
on the bed, bit ill,
my wife.
I wishes I should have read it to her,
but I kept it for you,
for you have a claim
over my words.
Believe me, I wrote it for you,
Last night, I swear,
It will be my first read to you.
Wait,
Let me read at least
a first few lines to you.
Shall I read???
