My Poems — They Are Not Poems...

My

My Poems — They Are Not Poems...

My poems — they are not poems...

And I, I am no poet...

For when the feelings that rise and tremble within my heart find no ears willing to listen,

I pour them onto sheets of paper...

How then can a foolish man who does not even know what he is doing call himself a poet?

At the doorway of a temple, where I have grown weary searching for human feelings inside human hearts,

I see those waiting to find God trample upon the feet of those who stand in their way...

The cries of those crushed beneath them — can those cries ever become poetry?

In this modern, sophisticated world,

behind the graceful faces that appear so beautiful before our eyes,

I see deception dancing shamelessly within their hearts...

And when I see it,

the silent tears that gather and fall from my eyes —

the soundless cry hidden within those tears —

how can that ever become poetry?

Yes...

I have understood...

I am no poet...

And what I write is not poetry...

There is a war taking place silently inside the mind...

And the battlefield is filled with cries that make no sound...

How can those become poems?

The unanswered question in the eyes of a little child who goes to sleep with an empty stomach...

And the words of a man with a full stomach who lectures the world about how life should be lived...

Between these two,

the conscience of a society caught helplessly in the middle —

how can that become poetry?

A son, raised lovingly in his mother's hands,

who, in her old age, walks away saying he has no time to come and see her...

The disappointment in those two eyes waiting at her doorway —

how can that become poetry?

A man who came calling himself a friend, who stood beside you like your own shadow,

but once his need was fulfilled, forgot even your name...

The sound of friendship breaking inside the heart that trusted him —

how can that become poetry?

A man spends his entire life gathering wealth...

And when life comes to its final page, he leaves it all behind...

Counting the things he accumulated rather than the days he truly lived,

the emptiness of such a life —

how can that become poetry?

Those who were here yesterday are not here today...

Those who are here today will not be here tomorrow...

Knowing this,

we still run towards tomorrow,

while losing the precious minute that is called today...

This endless journey of a human being —

how can that become poetry?

Calling it love and causing pain...

Calling it affection and exercising control...

Calling it a relationship and breaking a heart...

Calling it care and blocking someone's path...

Bearing all of this,

the silence of a good heart that still chooses to smile —

how can that become poetry?

The silence of an old man sitting alone and speaking to himself...

The longing of a young person who lives in loneliness even in the middle of a crowd...

The hidden burden carried by every soul that has no one to whom it can speak...

How can any of that become poetry?

Yes...

Now I understand...

My writings are not poems...

They are feelings struggling to live inside words...

They are not letters written with ink...

They are wounds written with the heart...

They were not written for someone else to read...

They were written by me,

to understand myself...

I am no poet...

Nor do I have the desire to become one...

A feeling is born somewhere within me...

But it cannot find a voice...

So I give it words...

That is all...

If it becomes poetry,

it becomes poetry inside your heart...

If it remains nothing more than words,

then it remains on my paper...

Whatever it may be...

If something born inside my heart can take root even for a moment inside yours...

That is enough...

My poems — they are not poems...

And I, I am no poet...

I am still a student in the school called Life...

A simple human being trying to turn each lesson that life teaches me into words...

If a single drop of your tear falls upon my writing...

If a single thought is born in your heart for just a moment...

If a small step towards a better life is taken because of something I have written...

Then, perhaps...

Even if what I write is not poetry,

it may have some meaning...

And even if I am not a poet,

perhaps my life may have some meaning...

Until then...

My poems — they are not poems...

And I, I am no poet...

Sakthi Sakthithasan poems — they are not poems...

And I, I am no poet...

For when the feelings that rise and tremble within my heart find no ears willing to listen,

I pour them onto sheets of paper...

How then can a foolish man who does not even know what he is doing call himself a poet?

At the doorway of a temple, where I have grown weary searching for human feelings inside human hearts,

I see those waiting to find God trample upon the feet of those who stand in their way...

The cries of those crushed beneath them — can those cries ever become poetry?

In this modern, sophisticated world,

behind the graceful faces that appear so beautiful before our eyes,

I see deception dancing shamelessly within their hearts...

And when I see it,

the silent tears that gather and fall from my eyes —

the soundless cry hidden within those tears —

how can that ever become poetry?

Yes...

I have understood...

I am no poet...

And what I write is not poetry...

There is a war taking place silently inside the mind...

And the battlefield is filled with cries that make no sound...

How can those become poems?

The unanswered question in the eyes of a little child who goes to sleep with an empty stomach...

And the words of a man with a full stomach who lectures the world about how life should be lived...

Between these two,

the conscience of a society caught helplessly in the middle —

how can that become poetry?

A son, raised lovingly in his mother's hands,

who, in her old age, walks away saying he has no time to come and see her...

The disappointment in those two eyes waiting at her doorway —

how can that become poetry?

A man who came calling himself a friend, who stood beside you like your own shadow,

but once his need was fulfilled, forgot even your name...

The sound of friendship breaking inside the heart that trusted him —

how can that become poetry?

A man spends his entire life gathering wealth...

And when life comes to its final page, he leaves it all behind...

Counting the things he accumulated rather than the days he truly lived,

the emptiness of such a life —

how can that become poetry?

Those who were here yesterday are not here today...

Those who are here today will not be here tomorrow...

Knowing this,

we still run towards tomorrow,

while losing the precious minute that is called today...

This endless journey of a human being —

how can that become poetry?

Calling it love and causing pain...

Calling it affection and exercising control...

Calling it a relationship and breaking a heart...

Calling it care and blocking someone's path...

Bearing all of this,

the silence of a good heart that still chooses to smile —

how can that become poetry?

The silence of an old man sitting alone and speaking to himself...

The longing of a young person who lives in loneliness even in the middle of a crowd...

The hidden burden carried by every soul that has no one to whom it can speak...

How can any of that become poetry?

Yes...

Now I understand...

My writings are not poems...

They are feelings struggling to live inside words...

They are not letters written with ink...

They are wounds written with the heart...

They were not written for someone else to read...

They were written by me,

to understand myself...

I am no poet...

Nor do I have the desire to become one...

A feeling is born somewhere within me...

But it cannot find a voice...

So I give it words...

That is all...

If it becomes poetry,

it becomes poetry inside your heart...

If it remains nothing more than words,

then it remains on my paper...

Whatever it may be...

If something born inside my heart can take root even for a moment inside yours...

That is enough...

My poems — they are not poems...

And I, I am no poet...

I am still a student in the school called Life...

A simple human being trying to turn each lesson that life teaches me into words...

If a single drop of your tear falls upon my writing...

If a single thought is born in your heart for just a moment...

If a small step towards a better life is taken because of something I have written...

Then, perhaps...

Even if what I write is not poetry,

it may have some meaning...

And even if I am not a poet,

perhaps my life may have some meaning...

Until then...

My poems — they are not poems...

And I, I am no poet...

Sakthi Sakthithasan