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
ridwanabdulhameed@gmail.com