Crap

Blank verse.

Blank? Can’t have a qualification more inept than that.

Blank verse is the one truest form of poetry. Uninhibited. Pure. Never calling for the poet to play around with rhythms and such extravagances. For, poetry, as an expression of the deepest of emotions, has a rhythm of its own. It appeals to anyone and everyone that shares in his bosom, the poet’s own emotions…

Success. Joy. I doubt i’ll ever make a composition as simple, and wonderful, again. B’coz i doubt i’ll ever hate myself as poignantly as i did then.

Success. Joy.

Twas not so far ago,
I was what i wanned be.
If i were to look back
On myself
I’d smile,
O those was the days.
No wont, no need,
Yet, such a fine stead.
Tasted success so young,
It poisoned my veins.
Today, sunk in vanity,
I look to but weep.
But tears won’t flow,
Ebbed by a resolve to resurrect,
That which i oughtta be.
Stand upright once more,
And look back to my time.
This time i look to earn,
What was once mine.
Success. Joy.

Sometimes, i sit up and wonder whether i’ve done anything worthwhile since i wrote the verse (which, by the way, i did in april,’07). And then i realise that i’ve actually achieved something i had not expected, or, for that matter, wanted. Yet, i choose to make the most of it. Play with my destiny (if there ever was a thing such as destiny) by my own rules.