"DO I REALLY WRITE POEMS, OR DO MY POEMS CRY WITH ME?"

POCKET 2 

Still in the same world, we belong to different spheres
You on that side and me on this:
we can do nothing but remember each other
The memories of you and me hang like posters
on the wall of the Ekushe bookfair
at the doil field, under the shade of the bakul tree at Charukala
at Hakim square, in the hoodless rickshaw
at the florists of Shahbag, at the open field of TSC
on the water of Ramana lake
in a night of shades and lights
on our bed of love 

I remember when I returned this time
my heart dissolved in your tears
The pocket of my shirt was wet
Reaching the end of my memories
I wear that shirt every night
and write love poems to you
Do I really write poems
Or do my poems cry with me? 

(Zakir Hussain Khokhon via TodayOnline)

 –

I really wish I could write beautifully and inspire people, make them feel as if my words can lift them up and even pull them down. Wistfully, I would want to write but before working on my literary skills, I have self confidence to work on.

Why, write then? When you have zero ounce of esteem in your work in which you should be proud at? Don't mistake the lack of confidence for rubbish work because whatever I write is genuine and heartfelt– I just think there's a lot of others better than me. And I always, always, compare, when it gets competitive. Therefore, I don't compete.

I write to get rid of all these thoughts I can't utter because I'm not a good speaker. I say the wrong things at the wrong time and there is no backspace in speaking. There are no "save to draft"s and there are no "delete"s. And so, sometimes I wish I could speak to people through pixels and ink instead of verbal nothingness. At least then, they have a material fondness to remember me by.

Words, poems, proses, are universal, akin to music, and art. I am glad I found an outlet like this to express myself. I am not a know-it-all in poetry (I don't even know that many poets to be honest), but I appreciate the sincerity in thoughtful words, each with a purpose unbeknownst to everyone but the author. I appreciate the relativity of truth, and the perspective of the dead. Above all, I appreciate the honour to be able to read the gifted, and hope that one day someone would look up to me the same way.