Still Guilty

One of those. It is very hard when people fail to see your vision.

For my attempt to write on pages
Then go on to perform on stages
Perform words that where stolen
From a dead poet whose words where never spoken

He was passed on the streets not greeted
Schools and churches he never fitted
People knew to little about his existence
His nature and appearance

He believed in expressing himself on ink
As he watched his talents drain down in a sink
World shutting down on his face
Taking his things going away to a far away place

Finding peace in isolation
Searching his inner being "introspection"
Finally gave in to what he believed
He stayed in me in silent and relieved.

Reviews

[The Seasonal Girl]

I have an instant liking for this poem. There is so much I could relate to -

He believed in expressing himself on ink
As he watched his talents drain down in a sink

As writers, everyone of us goes through such phase, for which there is no escape. At one point, even the words seem to swallow the helplessness which we try to inflict on it. All that is left is a silent voice, waiting to die, but breathes faint, against all odds somehow it manages to survive