What Are We If Not Deranged?

At Pen:

Dimple Kundnani

What are we if not deranged ?

Wanting for people to sing to our artistry.

Dance with them and call it their reality.

I have coloured myself in maroon hues

and wandered empty,

Wishing to infuse.

A life , a story , I could call my own.

A poet carries dreams in one pocket and pennies in other.

The stark reality is what keeps him covered.

He owns syllables like a baby ,

Armours them with innumerable feelings .

Not every poet becomes Gulzar,

That thought is enough to scare him.

"Poetry contains mere words,

And noone cares if you are unheard"

Says people who praise and backbitch too,

They shove a dagger ,

And gift you pens and tell you they loved how your plot unfolds,

A madman lays his eyes on stories

And sings them forever.

He repeats it like a monologue ,

And people never pay attention.

He is never scared if the words don't rhyme,

Or people call him monotonous,

Cause he's been called lunatic enough times.

I wondered what am I , if not a madman?

Talking to walls all empty when alone,

Making trees speak when the gust of wind blows.

If a madman has his idiocities at his side.

Then how am I any different / poles apart?

If I can make your imageries turn wild?

Make believe, my audience,

How creepy nights can turn right.

How friends can turn into lovers and lovers can stake their life.

If you believe in my words you'll think I am sane,

The day you stop believing in what I speak ,

I would be titled " insane".

So I alter my words, each night .

So you can think I am calm and a magician that can make your pains smile ,

Once the magic stops, I won't have my identity.

So pardon me , if I call myself mad,

What is my poetry, if it doesn't howl my intent?

From someone

who believes poetry keeps her alive.

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