When the weight of the world is fleetingly off my shoulder,
I let ink drip from my head onto paper.
The Pernicious Poet mocks me about words lost.
I do not chose to write on Mondays,
About love lost and hearts tossed,
I write on borrowed time on Sundays.
He asks me, “ Will you fly on artistic ventures?”
“ Or will we be another autistic dementor?”
He tells me I will be another brick in the wall,
Because no belle dame sans merci has me in thrall!
He dreams of Ozymandias in daffodils,
And I cannot sleep thinking of the bills.
He tells me the sky is but a landfill,
And I’m just busy working my power drill.
He tells me I will always have a writer’s block,
You can only write on blackboards with white chalk.
He tells me to to live everyday as my last,
I say, If today were the last, I’m at peace with the past.
He tells me to pull the trigger, drop the blade, seize the day!
And I pick the pen-today I write, it is a Sunday.
The Pernicious Poet tells me Poetry only comes from Poverty,
I tell him that is exactly why I write on Sundays strictly.
Pensively the Pernicious Poet provokes
“Do you want to write? Or do you want to be happy?”
I do not mean it to be snarky,
I chose to write on Sundays so on other days,
I can be happy.
When the weight of the world is fleetingly off my shoulder,
I let ink drip from my head onto paper.
My goodness this is good!❤️ There is so much emotion in "I let ink drip from my head onto paper," after a certain amount of time words become a necessity ... a means of shedding load and burden off from our shoulders. Beautifully rendered, Suyash!❤️
ReplyDeleteThis is such an interesting take on what it means to write — it's often cited that there is this struggle between art and living as if both can not be done simultaneously. At least there is some time, even if it's once a week, when the weight is lifted and the poet can write. Well penned. :-)
ReplyDeleteI love this......the ink dripping from head to paper......the Pernicious Poet......and only writing on Sunday, so as to be happy on other days. This made me smile.
ReplyDeleteSunday is your precious day.I am pleased you have chosen it to write your poems.
ReplyDeleteHe dreams of Ozymandias in daffodils
And i cannot sleep thinking of the bills
Great lines and ones I can relate to.Enjoyed your poem.
Oh, that ink drip can make some dark days. Sunday sounds like it works perfectly for your pen.
ReplyDeleteI really love this... and though I write on most days I see what you mean... a day for your writing is great.
ReplyDelete"Ozymandias in daffodils" …. never on Sunday
ReplyDeleteNice point about writing on Sundays so on other days you can be happy. I liked the sound in these lines: "He dreams of Ozymandias in daffodils,
ReplyDeleteAnd I cannot sleep thinking of the bills."
As long as you make time.
ReplyDelete