I would yield myself at this point
To the lowest bidders
To the first one who’s willing to claim me
To the lost causes and crackheads
To the mad Dogs in the darkened alleyways
To the saints and the sinners
To the torn-up pieces of discarded Tenners
Even to those who preach sanity
Desperate times, you see…
I would yield myself at this point
For a box of rotten peanuts
For things that never quite stuck
Like ‘Love’
I could never ‘hate’ you passionately
Just in bits and pieces;
Then how could I’ve ever truly ‘Loved’?
So I pretended sincerely
For years and years..
Like a poet pretends to care
For the Moon, the Stars,
The Flowers and the Fall
It’s not Love, you see,
Just a means to an end
A quest for a worthy metaphor
To construct that perfect sentence
The rhyming and the note
The Moonlit river and the sailboat
They are all superficial
Just like me
And what I represent
Superficial. Incomplete. Broken
Bits and pieces…
Until a strong gust of wind
Scatters what’s left of me
In a million different directions
Like ashes of a half-burnt cigarette
Neglected on a dirty windowsill
And I finally yield myself
To the lowest bidders…
P.S. Originally published on Medium
The kind of writing that shows up uninvited, barefoot, at 3 a.m.
