My Last Poem

I am a poet.

My womb carries dreams, memories, 

sometimes even grudges -

all of which, I nourish 

with the choicest of words.

My scars become stretch marks

on paper, as my pen touches

the page, and thus, I 

give birth to a thousand new worlds.

Little blobs of ink, shyly planting a

kiss on a crisp, spotless page, 

shimmer just as bright as

my eyes do, at that instant in time.

I am a poet - I pour out my ecstasy, 

my grief, my longings and even rage

with a pinch of similes and metaphors,

and a spoonful-and-a-half of rhyme.

I’m a poet - magically, I spin verses 

out of every mundane affair

and can sing ballads of

every fleeting thought.

No no, don’t presume that I am vain -

there are times when I try till I despair

but an empty page best describes

that, for which sonnets fall short.

Pangs of fear shoot through my veins, 

as I feel, frozen on the brink of my tongue

a whirlwind of musings, a trunk

full of tales I have barely begun to say.

Stranded without words, what’d remain of me?

My voice unheard, songs unsung -

Will I remain visible, yet forever unseen?

Will my reflections never see the light of day?

Were this to be the last time 

I ever picked up a pen -

what would I write?

What should my final words be?

I discovered the answer to this

question, which I ask myself often,

after several crushed and discarded 

drafts - why, I would leave the page empty.

For once, I would be 

the poem and not the poet -

The poem I yearned to pen 

but never could, I will BE.

And that - my last poem - would be

my most beautiful poem yet.

Ladies and gentlemen, here’s presenting 

with love, the poem that is ME.

The Tranquill Poet 🤍