Still fighting my muse... Not sure if this one is even a poem...
My existence is a poem I've never finished, as I've always been unsure what form it should take. In a labyrinth of lyrics, words are like whores, unfaithful and easily bought in a virtual marketplace, so I wonder if it's better to leave them unwritten - but an unprecedented urge to scribble overcomes me. My muse is not amused with prose. Love for rhymes and syllables abandons me. Yet, I know one day I will produce my best poem. I remember when I was invisible, silence was so surreal, until my pen began to shout. If only love was like our words. I never asked to be loved, I always thought it was a natural emotion, but when you are seen as a foreign seed, you feel you do not belong. Fate is like Judas, that comes with a price, leaving you confused with the mind like Russian Roulette, wondering which verses should be sacrificed, before the final 'bang' takes your life. We search for normal in an ordinary world, where such definitions are a matter of perception. Childhood becomes an enigma when you are guideless, so you search for faith, but end up faithless. When your world is burning, rage becomes your most loyal companion - releasing trauma through misunderstood screams. I was born lost in a place I did not belong, a different breed from a foreign seed. I've been finding myself since the day I took my first breath, a bird born too early with ruptured wings, unable to fly, struggling to breathe, before I could write or sing, the universe engraved an anthology of adversity, an impromptu narrative turning me into an accidental poet - with an unlabelled identity. I've walked amongst devils and angels, been betrayed by their wicked schemes. Yet, I never cry for yesterday, I am not a manifestation of my suffering. There are so many ghosts, I could not heal, I know their silhouettes will forever haunt, but I continue to count my blessings, as I've grown invisible wings, spreading in the form of free verse. Their feathers have become my quill, where my ink soars like an eagle, because I'm not afraid of approaching storms. The story of my life will eventually be forgotten, but maybe my poems will live forever. Silent One 11 March 2022
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