my appetite for sorrow
makes me turn every grief
passing through this heart
into a vile and phlegmatic poem.
the question is
whether or not poems
are tyrannical to one’s grief
and if putting pen to paper is just a farce…
I’m saying this because
I do not have the words
that would best describe
sitting next to a flight of stairs
and not being able to climb up…
Is it okay to surrender
every passing emotion to paper?
Would they publish the grief
of my poems in a local daily
eight and thirty years from now
and garner sympathy for my lost time?
I’m looking for an unassuming vernacular
that demands a distinction –
between the griefs one can write about
and the griefs one just ought to feel.
Standing still in the conundrum of inebriation; Rahul Jha writes. To learn certain things and to unlearn the rest. On a regular afternoon, he looks at his life in the third person and gets increasingly agitated at how things continue to reveal themselves.
Featured image credit: Pariplab Chakraborty