THE GIANT PEN ANTHOLOGY 198
I am phobic of ryhme
Too hard to generate in end line.
Criticism too bitter like lime
And thence, my fear in its prime.
Poetry to me, a crime
For poets do commit love crimes.
How do I mix reality and imagination?
Syllables, figures and hallucination,
A matter of facts and fiction,
Let me be in contemplation,
As I indulge in deep meditation,
Pen in ink needs concentration.
I felt afraid jumping into poetry,
I felt like I am empty_
When my pen; seems watery.
I felt a chase from my progeny_
As I was left behind;after delivery
To fate and its agony.
Poetry is like a tall giant tree,
with branches of words I couldn’t see.
To write a line, I need to pee.
To write pun, I need some fees.
I need a muse before it flee
To write the future I see.
She sings lullaby without a melody
Echoes without a voice
Enslaves without a chain
Threatens without a weapon
Germinates without a root yet, many branches
Whom shall I fear if not poetry, the invisible
Lost in thought of how to-
Write lines of rhyme,
And to bring words into life.
I can’t imagine how to.
Though loves writing, but
Still a phobia of poery.
Poetry shuns me
As my ink fails me
No longer wanna bleed
As my demons are kept not at bay
For writing was a metaphor
For control but my fountain has run out.
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