The effect of Sylvia

A poem for poets and their trials they face. The world we created for ourselves, and the agony of writing and creating something beautiful.

"Is this coming from my perspective?"



Were my words too predictable,
Too selective.
Perhaps my words had become so elusive!
So mundane and unpalatable.
And words heard too often,
It left me thinking...
Had they understood at least something?
Were my words too morbid or too tempting,




These are but thoughts I often wonder,
And without a doubt,
Daily stress about,





Like a loud echo of mistakes pointed out by critics,
Words by a poet_ for all the melodramatics.
That at times had tempted me to up on the one thing,
I love.
I vowed to love more than anything;
But to them it meant nothing,
They didn't care whether it meant to me everything.
Perhaps this was the reason why so many writers were alcoholics,
Because we can't stop over-thinking.






Even-though our talent were a gift from above;


A million words recited but not understood,



Understood but not remembered,
Remembered but not accepted,
Accepted but not endeavoured,
Endeavoured but not rewarded.






And at times I'm left asking myself:

"Is this coming from my perspective?"