Is Poetry My Fate

I don’t know why, I have chosen Poetry as my form;
It cuts me to pieces, and the reader is also sufficiently torn.
The precise meter, the pressures of rhythm and rhyme,
Walking the razor’s edge, creating eternity in limited space and time;
The restricted freedom, the necessity of conforming to norms,
The agony I have felt when I couldn’t adapt to the given forms.
The deliberate delusions, the forged flights of fancy,
The feeding of the poem – at the cost of me.

So I tried to protect this sensitivity,
Beneath a dull and callous prose,
But the narrative started falling in rhythm,
As slowly the meter rose.
And I don’t know why, though it talked of blood and gore
I couldn’t help letting it pierce, like poetry to the core;
And if one read between the lines even a child could say
That this writer is not versatile – he’s doomed to one Way.

I even tried to lose myself in the rhetoric of play
But the way the characters spoke, was only as a poet may
And I came to this conclusion to my utter dismay –
That if I have to say something – It’ll always be in a poetical way.
So the options are clear – I can choose not to write –
Or be doubly doomed – being convicted of the crime
Of sticking to those structures, that have long been dismissed;
And persisting with a poetry that leaves everyone pissed.

But I can’t help writing – even if it makes me blue;
So excuse me Darling, as I reach out to you,
‘Cause I’m just not be able to hide and deny
That I kind of Love You – And I don’t know why.

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