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  • Tavish Poem

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    RohanKumarBiswal
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    Poets see life through a unique lens and are trapped contemplating mortality. They weave hope and meaning from reason, treason, and the seasons. Poets see that people hurry through life to places they don't want to go, and use their writing to help others. They know inspiration is fleeting but the thirst for understanding keeps them creating. Poets see both the beauty and pain in the world and try to convey these truths to help others through difficult times.

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    Poets see life through a unique lens and are trapped contemplating mortality. They weave hope and meaning from reason, treason, and the seasons. Poets see that people hurry through life to places they don't want to go, and use their writing to help others. They know inspiration is fleeting but the thirst for understanding keeps them creating. Poets see both the beauty and pain in the world and try to convey these truths to help others through difficult times.

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    26 views2 pages

    Tavish Poem

    Uploaded by

    RohanKumarBiswal
    Poets see life through a unique lens and are trapped contemplating mortality. They weave hope and meaning from reason, treason, and the seasons. Poets see that people hurry through life to places they don't want to go, and use their writing to help others. They know inspiration is fleeting but the thirst for understanding keeps them creating. Poets see both the beauty and pain in the world and try to convey these truths to help others through difficult times.

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    © All Rights Reserved
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    of 2

    Schrödinger's Poet

    Poets are trapped in their own mind


    Looking at life through a vision beam
    Stuck in a slow-motion car crash
    Knowing that they are going to die
    But taking the effort to see just how they do.
    Poets weave hope onto
    Reason,
    Treason,
    Seasons,
    A basket full of sins,
    A pocketful of tears
    you wipe the slate with,
    A fistful of sunshine
    you burn the candle with,
    Because they see
    we’ve all been wrapped
    in the wrong box of emotions,
    hurrying to reach destinations
    we don't want to go to,
    And that the purple sky you love
    Is just you remembering the deep purple bruise
    on your mother’s shoulders,
    Because they’ve seen the way your car’s tyres
    Sniffle out the air
    And you drive fixated
    at the shotgun seat, still and fair
    Not noticing the curve
    And drive off the cliff,
    Dead soon,
    But in love.
    Poets know that sometimes the sun won’t be able to cut through the fog,
    That inspiration is drop-dead gorgeous but deadbeat,
    That the way out is not drawn on map
    But the thirst to make it
    easier
    better
    surer
    Is tattooed inside their eyelids
    Maybe that's how they know
    the twilight is not a dawn but it is a promise,
    Of an arrival,
    Of a goodbye.
    Poets know that we’re all
    hollow bones and blank smiles,
    with spines probably made of licorice,
    with wings like that of a moth,
    too scared to sprout,
    with fists in our mouth,
    afraid of saying the truth,
    but feel it ripping open our insides
    suffering yes,
    but in silence.
    Poets see the poem you’re living
    In all the colours the white splits into,
    Watching which one scars you,
    Which one touches you,
    Which one gives you,
    A moment for yourself,
    Noting it down somewhere
    Just so they could help you
    When you go to a wishing well.
    See they know
    the wind whispers us names,
    the mirror shows us who,
    the road leads us there,
    the rain washes the pain away,
    So don’t you ever think
    The path that you’re on
    gets lonely.
    And if you think poets are scared to remain forgotten
    Know that you never knew who they were in the first place
    It is you
    It is I
    It is she
    It is he
    It is they
    It is them
    It is here
    It is there
    It is now
    It was never.

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