I AM DYING, EVERYDAY'

I am dying , everyday

and they all say , is that

I am not a poet of death

unless I am dead

I am not a poet of life

unless I have lived , last of my ages 

I am not a poet of sadness 

unless I am having food on my plate

so I guess , 

I am the poet of something, at least

and they all will figure it , sequentially

and when I will die

some of you would read my verses 

and give me a name or a bit of a fame

a dole , a scoundrel of my soul

a vase for my brevity 

a critical poem of mine in your course book of tragedy

and my progeny would talk about my lineage or legacy

but I would be dead

inside the grave

fired near the river of ganges 

eaten by ants , earthworms or insects of the brave

I would be gone

I would be gone

I am still dying 

and nobody is here to mourn…. 

that I would be gone ….

forever , in December , October or November

maybe in February or July , 

near to the month , 

when my mother would die

then , I would be a poet of death 

but I am not one , right now

its fine by me, 

my poetry would do what my existence could not, somehow….

it would outlive all of my glooms 

despair and miseries of dooms 

forelive my tragedies and turmoils and bloom 

my regrets and my blues , of solitude 

I am going …

I am going ….

near to my grave 

I am still dying ….

and nobody is here to celebrate…

that I would be gone….

forever, forlorn and forelived …

by my poetries and my antics 

I wish to go early

I wish to go in briefs 

I wish to go in suitcases 

I go , I go ,

to my pyre ,

and I am still dying 

and nobody is here to stay …

with me , today

since I will be gone , 

for forever, all alone…