THE WORST POEM EVERMADE

 THE WORST POEM EVER MADE 

Undiscovering between the best and the perfect, 

I am trying to make the worst poem ever made. 

A poem that mocks poetry, 

By an infamous poet who get mocked socially. 

Painting within the poet's pen,

Of a poet who always procastinates...

But one day he decides to write a poem,

About a poem that mocks poetry itself ...

Penning down this poem,

He thought let's try to Make the worst poetry of all time ever .

That would be lived within the pages,

And that would be remembered till posterity of penchant times, 

He tried to be clever ...

Humiliating every phrase of what a poet ponders,

 A poem that disgust poetry.

Is the writer's wail playing the reader's role,

Among the ounces of poetic prose...

How to hate a poem?

How to hate a poet?

How to hate his pen?

And how to completely hate what he penned down?

Looking among the windows of visualization,

A poet tries to paint the picture from there unworthy pen,

In the anticipation of praise,

But what he get is only the aversion of the audience filled with rage...

Committing the sin of writing day after day,

Ignited by the passion of not lacking motivation.

To write another worst poem of his already dead day,

This poet will someday vanish within the sand dust where his death bed lays....

As he had mastered the art of procrastination by then,

His eyes get filled with undeserving  thoughts,

That should not be read,

But should only be felt...

So he sat, under the starry night of non rainbowed sky,

Failing to pen down every thing he thinks.

But with the flow of Falling to find so many flaws within himself,

He became flawless and wrote some extracts,

(as follows)

"We all are trying to be the best,

In the race where even the judges are not qualified,

To take our test....

We all are trying to be perfect,

And what advice, do you want from a poet,

Who always procrastinates, (even in his sleep, whoa!)

But I have been the poet,

Who writes rarely about the beautiful wills and pretty wits,

As these are the lies... That even our ancestors kept away from us,

As a secret....

So don't try to be hard,

The natural inclemency is rare.

Don't indulge in pushing your pen,

If your pen is even scared. (to write about it!)

No don't stop,

But make  yourself courageous enough,

To write about something,

That is the worst...

As everyone write about, happy things and good human beings,

I would write about something great, 

But now it's my time to sleep... "

He just wrote and slept, 

But gave us the key of scornful satire, 

Where we should fall in love with the desire, 

To create not to become perfect, 

But to create to write about the possibility of being ridiculed. 

A poem can never mock poetry, 

Like a poet can never rage against his art. 

But the readers can, 

And so we all try to reference it from the very start... 

Don't do anything just to be best, 

Do it for discovering the fun underneath the imperfect. 

As perfection is a mere illusion, 

Real is always open to cynical criticism and unanticipated aversion.

So here I leave this poem on you,

You can end it in your own way.

Because poems like this are never made,

And I  hope, I am successful at making it the worst among all the poems that are ever made, anyway.

Leeza