IN PRAISE OF

IN PRAISE OF

Maybe from my pen pours venom,
That burns the page that it falls on,
Lines and words written with fire,
A lynching I cannot escape from.

I don’t write of love or pretty things,
That’s for beautiful minds to do,
In this mind crawl sluggish maggots,
Eating away the years now left so few.

Of gore and guts, jaws and blood,
Of things that repel yet so fascinate,
Like a gorgeously speckled snake,
In the balance of poetry doesn’t rate.

Teach me how to be a tender scribe,
How to write odes to beauty and love,
Tell me what it takes to be,
Like an angel from above.

I am sin and forever shall remain,
A blot on this immaculate page,
A nymph, a dryad fallen from grace,
And fill it with my rage.

You praise and laud the virgin,
But the whore you also create,
So spare for her not your pity,
When you so mindlessly mate.

I write not of virtues or values,
Of adoration or splendor sublime,
The words are filled with revulsion,
And ring with no musical chime.

I write of I, me and mine,
Of what it means to be,
Living in my head with me,
For all of eternity.

Sujata

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