By Meghna CH
The Coward Poet
Writing your mind is a mock,
A joke disguised as an act of liberation
I say true freedom is in the practice of fabrication
The perfect blob of cement to hold my brick block
Once, I was fearless, I used sentences to cry and laugh
I meditated on my literature like a sage, unbothered by the snakes and storms
I raced to defend at the sound of debate, I was a mother to my words
And God forbid, someone criticize my baby, my autograph
I was naive, I wanted to perfect my thoughts,
Before I dared to pen them
And then I succumbed to the mayhem
As I realized yet again, there is no perfect, only dots
But I never gave up, I was determined to fight forever
I spoke my truth, I built towers of my identity
Kick after kick at the bottom of my Jenga, but I still pieced the fragments endlessly
Only to be labeled as an arrogant and rebellious bickerer
Soon I grew tired of my strength, I did not deem it worth
To go on for long, self-made and lonely through this seemingly “righteous path”
I rested the heavy ashes of my dignified burnt speech down below and sighed in relief in the aftermath
Before you judge me, I am only a woman, I tried and I failed, like a million others before me on earth
Now I dream of cruising in ambiguity, writing to be a pretentious brew
Neither here nor there, never definite, but still flowing
Leaving just enough room to maneuver my way into a clever something
When others throw stones at my words, the blur between the lines runs to my rescue
I write once, I erase twice, I write a river, I erase a universe
Ah! The tortured fun, as I fit myself into the cold embrace
Of my spray-tanned identity, the plastic beauty, the frozen grace
Lo and behold! I am the “Coward poet”- with distorted edges and a giant curse.