Who forgot me, are not the ones, who cared
Those who recall, are but the ones, who blared
“You ain’t the one, cherished, on our roster
Neither Keats nor Yeats. Not a bard! An imposter!”
How many miles more, to walk this oblivion?
A castaway, do I dare, cross-over to their dominion?
Who are poets and prosers, not petty imposers, like me!
Whose hearts spew out, the pride of clout and creativity
Never penned a rhyme, that lasted beyond, a day or two
To not be read, so short an age, of a dream, born to rue
How many times, I perused it, shouted out, my hushed heart
The verse that bore, scorn galore, at maker’s hand, now ripped apart
Measure of my joy, every time was she, or more than that!
Then why besieged, my naïve poesy, in this vicious spat
With those, who care to bless, chosen creations…
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