You don’t know what I pass through,
To painfully let my pen bleed.
Whether I stab it, puncture it, rip it open
Or even kill it.

You don’t give a damn
If I spill a thousand litres of ink,
Just to conjure a sentence.
All you’re after is critiquing my work.

Telling me it needs to be specific.
How I need to shrink my lines.
Ranting on how bad my vocabulary is,
How I need to be Obahiagbon.

Raving on me rhyming my rhythms
Not minding if I started scrawling yesterday.
For me, all I needed was to speak my mind,
And what you’re after is making me a “perfect” poet.

Thanks, Mr. Critic.
You’ve done a lot for me,
Claiming you have made me a better poet.
Maybe you just meant I’m a bitter poet.

My audience no longer relate to me,
The ligament is fractured.
Now, my words are ambiguous,
Boring the “read” out of my readers.

Then, why should I write,
If I can’t communicate.
Why should I use headache giving words,
When migraine won’t allow them read.

You can be simple,
Following all the rules.
Keeping the essence of poetry,
And passing the message across.

A Modified 2016/11/26 Article

Written by Abdulhameed Ridwan


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