My Crush
I have taken up reading poems again
to steal from them when words leave my company,
For I will try, and try again to write something that comes ot as a part ot me
though I have none to give
and so I steal, nay, I borrow, and mould them to look like me, to speak like me,
a confused identity, not shackled to the land it came out ot,
going around, rudderless, drawing squiggles on everything
angrily and desperately trying to assimilate.
Who am I trying to fool?
I do not sound worldly. I have not suffered enough.
If poetry were to come out of pain, wouldn't there be a lot of poets now?
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