My Poetry Is Pain

My Poetry Is Pain

These senseless verses
Sweet sounding lines
And honeyed sentences
That some manage to rhyme

These empty words
Like utterances profound
So prolific and abundant
Like grass on the ground

These thoughts that say nothing
Though you like the sound
Sold like factory packed peanuts
Hundreds to a pound

Soul food and solace
Some find them I'm told
That goes to the bidder
With the biggest pot of gold

So what about the pathos
There in the dust now lies
In the fly covered eyelids
Of that child who slowly dies

Or the shame and frustration
In a woman's torn dress
Treated like a rag doll
By men who left her a mess

The wrinkled old man
Whose age is his bane
Denied even comforting death
That he waits for in vain

What about the skeletal mother
Suckling blood instead of milk
Hopelessness her garment
While you're wrapped in silk

Who'll buy such lines of horror
Of a miserable world insane
Because I've seen sorrow
My poetry is pain

~Siddharth Sanyal~