For Poetry

I was never one to write poetry for myself.
Until I was told I could, I never believed that I could ever write poetry for myself.

That is when I realised that all the poetry I have ever written is not for the one it is addressed to; it is not for the wind or the trees or the world. All the poetry I have ever written is for myself.
You see, it never occurred to me that writing poetry is quite a selfish act. Maybe the one I write for is scared of the poet. Maybe the ones I have loved despise my words and despise my poetry.

Perhaps I lost poetry. Perhaps, I am all worn out,
Like my father’s lungs, stained with the cigarettes I begged him to stop smoking.
I feel all worn out. Just like the conversations between me and my best friend. Sorry, me and another stranger.
I am worn out. I am worn out. I am worn out. And poetry how outgrown me.

Poetry has abandoned me, left me to my own devices.
Poetry, my crutch, has left me with my broken bones.
But I will still try to walk with my broken bones and worn out skin.

At least, I can try to walk for myself.
I know all the poetry I write is for me because I dream in poetry.
I think in poetry.
I speak in poetry.
I have loved poetry and poetry has loved me.

But poetry is gone.
I checked all the spots I could. I checked the corners of my bedroom and the dining table and the kitchen.
I have forgotten poetry’s convolutions. Its rhythm. Its structure.
All I have is words now; but I am not sure I have any more poetry.

Ansuya Mansukhani is an undergraduate student of Liberal Arts in Pune. She expresses herself through writing and enjoys reading, cooking, photography and everything ordinary.

Featured image: Jr Korpa/Unsplash