Abusufyan Kateregga Bogere Poet Free verse

The Final Voice

Today, after so long,
I mastered the courage
to pick up my pen.

I opened my book.
I sat back, meditating on the page,
searching for the inspiration
I once knew so well.

And I found it.
But the finding was a loss.

That which had me inspired
no longer belongs to me.
She long ago drifted from my path
to a track she felt was better, I guess.
My mind just never received the notice.

How can that which long left me
still be my inspiration?

Here I am, with tears rolling down,
head shaking side to side,
reminded by the ghosts I thought I buried.
It's different now harder
to hold this pen that once wrote her name.

I have memories that she long forgot
that I cannot seem to forget.
And I, unlike her,
I want to hold on to them.

So the only way to keep them safe
is to let go of this pen,
close this book,
seal all my thoughts in
for no one to see, hear, or feel.

I now put down my pen
and wander off with my thoughts and dreams
for I cannot let them go.

This is the final voice

What Remains

She doesn't know
she still lives in the space
between your ribs,
a tenant who never pays rent,
who left years ago
but forgot to take her ghosts.

You sit with pen in hand
and find her face
in every word you try to write.
Not because you choose to—
God, you would choose otherwise
but because inspiration
doesn't ask permission.
It finds what it loves
and stays.

The tears come not from missing her,
but from missing the person you were
when she was still possible.
That man is gone too,
and you grieve them both
in the same salt water.

But here's what she doesn't know:
these memories you carry,
these thoughts you cannot close
they are not chains.
They are the proof
that you loved honestly,
deeply,
with the kind of abandon
that leaves marks.

And if you put down the pen today,
if you close the book
and walk away
that's not surrender.
That's just the second verse
of a song
she will never hear.

She long forgot.
You long remember.
That difference?
That's what remains of you

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