When I write poetry…

when I write poetry, I become more than a poet.

• I become a surgeon:
I rip open my heart, to look for the traces of the pain unwritten, I choose the darkest of them and using my scissors called metaphors cut open the veins near it so that this pain can flow through me and reach my throat where it becomes so heavy for me to hold, its bitterness makes me spill it on the paper.

• I become a wanderer :
The one who is always wandering in and out of the dark, deserted lanes of memories. I wander around to seek a home, a peaceful abode or maybe a shelter to rest my thoughts in and as a wanderer I face disappointment several times, for different feelings, different faces, and different pages seem like a home, but much to my dismay they are nothing more than an Inn.

• I become a killer :
yes, with each poem I write I choose a part of myself to be murdered by the train of my thoughts. My victims are those deeper corners of my heart which I dig, using the sharpest of my tool my memory, plunging it straight into the corner/the victim, digging a deep hole in it, killing it, silencing it forever and with each stroke of mine oozes out the warm liquid, that flows out from my eyes, relieving me from that burden, with that one poem. and again I go on to find another corner to be slain.

•I become a saint :
As serene and tranquil I can be. I write a poem with the silence I hold, I write poetry being a saint who is lost from this outer world, but very much found in the inner world of mine, the universe, the cosmos I have within me. with each verse, with each metaphor I use, I call out for the universe to align with my energy, with my soul and contribute rhyme to my poem.

•I become a toddler :
Every new poem of mine feels like the first I am writing. every time I sit down to pen my thoughts into those verses I feel fragile, weak like a toddler who is learning to walk. I scribble some hundred times, to bring out that perfect, well-formed stanza. fall into the pits of my thoughts, while trying to walk on the edges of memory, but stand up, and finish that sentence. and sentence by sentence, word by word, with each poetic devices and punctuations I use, I learn to walk, I learn to write a poem. Only to forget it with the next poetry of mine.

© 2020-21 Muskan Sharma | All rights reserved.

12 Comments Add yours

  1. Reblogged this on The Reluctant Poet and commented:
    Don’t Miss Reading This!!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. You become everything and we love to see that.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Glad to hear that ❤️


  3. sidflynn says:


    Liked by 2 people

  4. This is so germane and true! Thanks for this 🙂

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Pleasure is all mine

      Liked by 1 person

  5. akshita1776 says:

    This is so relateable!

    Liked by 2 people

  6. Read on my blog, there is an almost similar poem i wrote titled “why i write”. I loved yours more🔥🔥🔥

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I would surely check that out. Thank you so much 💕

      Liked by 1 person

  7. I love this🔥🔥🔥

    Liked by 1 person

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