SWIPE FOR POETRY! 👉🏼
Can grief be permanent?
My mother would say no,
Or not even answer such a question.
And I'm glad that she doesn't.
Because if she does,
Because if she cries about it,
Because if she gives her grief a name,
The picture and the man inside the frame,
Hanging in the verandah would,
Burn again. And this time,
The ash would be black (er).
Because the grey, the 'weeping',
Was renamed as 'crying' 3 years ago.
Grief can't be permanent,
But the hourglass christined as "pain" is,
My fingers are scraps of paper mache,
And my hand is a self-stitched cushion,
Dyed in woad.
But then my mom says,
"Art is driving you mad!"
But Ma, if my body is made up of art,
Of your pain, your flesh, your suffering in those 9 months,
When I was just a cocoon of undifferentiated cells,
Coming to life.
A blunder ushering it's own way into another disaster.
I think now you know why prodigies die in the mid way,
But in my case, a remnant survived.
It's running alongside shady reflections,
Only to fall into your arms,
And rise back again into your lap,
As another scar in the credits page,
Of your dear journal,
you maintained back in the 80s.
I know I am a beat you hate,
In a song you love.
It repeats all throughout the song, but
You've got to listen to it.
Afterall the artist who created it was famous,
Like a gold dipped cookie gleaming,
In bold letters, the word engraved on it-
"Proud Father" ~ Grief might not be permanent but I am.
I'll always be there. Take this poem,
Paste it in my first birthday's album.
Take it as my apology.
With tears in my eyes,
And a mirror in my Hand.