WOES OF A WRITER

1


You don’t know what I pass
through,
To painfully let my pen bleed.
Whether I stab it, puncture it,
rip it open
Or even kill it.
You don’t give a damn
If I spill a thousand litres of
ink,
Just to conjure a sentence.
All you’re after is critiquing my
work.
Telling me it needs to be
specific.
How I need to shrink my lines.
Ranting on how bad my vocabulary
is,
How I need to be Obahiagbon.
Raving on me rhyming my rhythms
Not minding if I started scrawling
yesterday.
For me, all I needed was to speak
my mind,
And what you’re after is making me
a “perfect” poet.
Thanks Mr. Critic.
You’ve done a lot for me,
Claiming you have made me a better
poet.
Maybe you just meant I’m a bitter
poet.
My audience no longer relate to
me,
The ligament is fractured.
Now, my words are ambiguous,
Boring the “read” out of
my readers.
Then, why should I write,
If I can’t communicate.
Why should I use headache giving
words,
When migraine won’t allow them
read.
You can be simple,
Following all the rules.
Keeping the essence of poetry,
And passing the message across.
written by Abdulhameed Ridwan
ridwanabdulhameed@gmail.com
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