The Muse ( Enge enadhu kavidhai Ver 2.0 )

Poetry has always meant rhymes
Wordsworth and Shelly
Byron and Keats
This bunch of words
How is this a poem?

But today my anger decides
To break my thought and sentence
Into pieces that don’t rhyme
Or fit the grammar of prose
Muddled thoughts in a rush to be heard
Without waiting to be polished
Do I pretend I am a poet?

My lips quiver
and the eyes fill up
The drops spill out
as ink on blank paper
White turns to black
on an empty page that no longer is
The fury scrotches ahead
and leaves behind
a trail of fuming footprints

The folks often wonder
why the eternal rage
why not some cheer
the smell of roses so sweet
the smile of kids and rainbow colours
the patter of rain
or kittens on the ledge?

How can they know
that when anger cools down
the words have long dried up
silence reigns supreme
Peace hardly inspires

I smile to vent my joy
I write to liberate my anger