I attempt now to write
the perfect poem about my life; the pen
glides freely on the paper, the frictions
bring to life memories of the past. . . it's tiresome,
a tiresome process.
I would rather imagine a life
perfect; a serene day as cinematic
as a Martin Scorsese imagery; I
would rather paint my life on a
Wacom cintiq; but I can not
write the perfect poetry about
Because what is there to be so
proud of, proud of to be telling: I'm
no winner of any WWE royal
rumble or hell-in-a-cell match;
I'm no wrestler — what to say
that I've fought against invisible
shadows, all my life?
How to be proud of — when I say
I like many girly (ASMR?) things to do; like
cooking and baking, providing comfort to
others, caressing them, watching
them cut wood — the sound of
it — I love it!
How to utter the unspeakable truth
that I've lived my life — the
larger portion of it — as a mental
vagabond — unemployed —
Now that I've written this poem, I'm
struggling how to finish it, I'm
no Triple~H, and I've no cutting
edge finisher, like his Pedigree.
I say goodbye to you all!
Be safe, be healthy, love
the young, respect the elderly.
Goodbye Goodbye Goodbye
(I'll meet you
in the next poem.)
Tanmoy Acharya 100 (author) on February 04, 2021:
It's a pleasant surprise when my first published poem gets a nod from one of the best poets on HubPages. Thank you so much for your thoughtful comment.
I shall dig deeper, and try to frame better poems.
BRENDA ARLEDGE from Washington Court House on February 04, 2021:
I think it's difficult to describe our own life. It is much easier to look upon a reflection of others.
Each of us are unique. I am certain you have touched others in a way you have not realized.