No, sorry, I can’t lend you my pen.
It’s my weapon.
With it I can slay, throttle, scourge.
I can fire bullets into an air of smug superiority
Or plunge my blade through the animosity of a frozen heart.
And if I lose this weapon
And can’t replace it,
Inside me a warrior dies.
No, sorry, I can’t lend you my pen.
It’s my tool.
With it I can carve, chisel, grind.
I can drill through the stony silence of blind indifference
Or hammer my truth into dismissive wooden minds.
And if I lose this tool
And can’t replace it,
Inside me a craftsman dies.
No, sorry, I can’t lend you my pen.
It’s my voice.
With it I can rant, murmur, plead.
I can whisper the softness of footprints in the first snowfall
Or scream the obscenities of a raging storm.
And if I lose this voice
And I can’t replace it,
Inside me a messenger dies.
No, sorry, I can’t lend you my pen.
She’s my lover.
With her I can hope, cherish, dream.
I can embrace the sunrise and taste the kisses of dewdrops
Or deny that the shadow behind me was ever mine.
And if I lose this lover
And can’t replace her,
Inside me a poet dies.
Madras Courier originally ran as a broadsheet with a poetry section. It was a time when readers felt comfortable. sharing glimpses of their lives through verse. If you have a poem you’d like to submit, do email us at [email protected].
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