I was told, poetry should rhyme,
So I obliged,
I wrote a line,
Then searched for a word that rhymes.
I changed my words; I altered my musings just to fit in the ‘standard’,
It was difficult to find words that sounded so similar,
It was unsettling for me to change my thoughts just to make them rhyme.
“It flows better that way” they said and it kept ringing in my mind,
So whenever I sat, with a paper and a pen,
Words ceased to ooze out from my soul,
‘Coz I looked for utopia in this flawed world, I tried to machine-cut my natural words, I tried to be perfect with my verses, ‘
Coz I thought only then they will worthy, worthy enough to be validated.
I tried chaining my notions and my words to some stupid norm,
It felt constricting to be bound with so many regulations,
When I just desired to bear my heart on a paper,
Poetry, it is more than an amalgamation of words,
It is the cry of a soul.
How then, can I limit such a sacred emotion?
‘Coz as I grew up, I realised,
Poetry, it isn’t about shine and shimmer,
It’s about scars and crevices,
It’s about marks and stains,
It’s about those minutest details,
It’s about bruises and wounds,
It’s about hurt and relief; It’s about joy and grief,
It’s about love, it’s about envy,
It’s about poise, it’s about grace,
It’s about those crooked smiles,
It’s about coffee stained tables,
It’s about the memory so faded,
That it’s barely alive,
It’s about those inside jokes, I
t’s about those midnight giggles,
It’s about the starry spheres,
It’s about the muffled tears,
It’s about war, it’s about peace,
But most importantly,
It’s about you and me.
And we, we’re far from perfect
We are flawed, we are scarred, we’re bruised,
Why then, should our poetry flow flawlessly?
Why they, should it be smooth as honey?
There’s this uncanny rhythm,
In tainted things,
There’s a miraculous flow,
On sinned roads,
There’s a magnificent beauty,
In scars, in marks, in cuts.
There’s immense power
In joy and grief, in hurt and relief,
There’s this poise,
In your crumbled castles.
There’s serenity,
In your imperfect giggles.
There’s peace,
On that coffee stained table.
And your crooked smiles?
They’re lovable.
But most of all,
That broken crown on your head?
It’s dazzling.
It’s a mark of growth,
It’s a mark of strength,
It’s a mark of control,
On the mess in your head.
So that’s why, in the world full of rhyming words,
I choose to be a free verse.

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