What is Poetry? – Part 2
Poetry is the forsaken cry, the loneliest voices with the loudest minds,
captured in ink, blighted by drink, or bolstered,
emboldened with the bravado to think big,
to sing on a page,
to rage against the silence of days
spent drifting through the passive malaise,
the love of something and not for how it pays.
Poetry is the air up there, despair in the mind of a scribe
at not being able to fly, so it is
the flight of birds described by those who live in unknowns
to those who dream of being free.
Poetry is anything between a sucker punch or a long lunch,
a coupe de grace or a warm embrace.
It’s the lines of life in a face,
the wrinkled space between
never and eternity.
In the distance,
a wall of debris.
Cold, damp, sunless,
An ode to all the
Those arrested in
How many have given up their lives due to the carelessness of others?
Aren’t we all just living some variation of the same story?
Why is it so easy to divide, judge, negatively compartmentalize?
Let us always remember each other’s humanness.
Then, maybe we will finally understand what it means to empathize.
Of a buttery paratha
And gharam chai
I was reminded
Be nice to everyone
Say thank you and sorry
Remember your manners
Make sure you’re clean
Respect your teachers
Don’t give them a chance
Only say how good religion is
So they get this
Terrorist image out of their head
And I thought to myself
How funny that I have to convince
Others to treat me
See me like them
Like a human.