AN INHUMANE  POETIC WRITER  WITH EXISTENTIAL BIASES

 

 

Within the substitutes of what this is for ?

I inhibited writing and my feeling wall,

I had some pride and faultlines through,

That,  was I writer or an  imposter for sure ?

 

The seizures built inside me ,

I felt them at times and cried mostly,

But I didn`t write any one of them ,

To feel more like human.

 

But all I feel is like  a pathetic flower ,

That is full of spike , unable to feel or fall,

Are humans , the real  synonym for hesitation to express?

Or are writers , the real over feelers and under healers who love shambles of written human vagueness?

 

Are humans like the stone pyramid of gaza ?

Staged throughout the life to please other genders and societal strata?

But are writers  the antithetical of basic ?

An Exaggerated intellectual shit ?

 

Are humans the roleplay hanging in between,

Their idealized versions and their current self diversions ?

But are writers the ostentatious sophistications ,

Of live it less, love it less and hate it all to create a dramatic mess?

 

Are humans the uncherished versions of their parents ,

Killing their real offspring to destruct and mould  them in a way they please ?

But are writers inconsistent with this,

Not complaining what they don`t please, but sulking about it to displease?

 

Like humans are the main characters and heroes of their own fairy tale,

Building it through and solving the mission impossible to make it mission tangible?

Like writers are the villians and anti heroes of their own sorrowful saga,

Caging them to behold and feeling all the grief immeasurable to make the condition intangibly unhealable?

 

like humans believe in rising out of the ashes to discern,

constructing the archways on the impulse,

writers  find their feats in the falls of feels and fatals,

making it through the end , comprehending the livable sorrow of unending sadness.

 

Like humans feel they are the poets of someone`s epiphany

Like the writer feel they are the reader of someone`s ingenuity

like the poets feel they are the sonnet of someone`s misery

like the reader feel they are the fascination of someone`s diary .

 

we , as , who we are , non binary, nor contextual , neither compartmentalized being ,

are affectionately and effortlessly so inhumane to digest and converse with,

seeking benevolence , having none , seeking generosity , showing to no one,

catalyzers of attention and pillars to sanction, often seek an inhumane encounter to break free,

as humans , writers, poets and readers to realize and rationalize that we all are none [but a particle of dust to hold any significance in this infinite universe ]