I sneaked onto every comment on others’ writing
like a thief stealing in broad day light
but in term of knowledge, these weren’t even
worth my time.
From stealing – I couldn’t benefit much.
Most of these comments were pretty basic
Geared to not offend the writer
My turn came
I can be nice to them but I abandoned
my view – I couldn’t cheat them such.
Sometimes, I found comments I like
rare like gem stones at seashore, glistening
from a distance, and waiting for to be picked
but because of their scarcity – I couldn’t learn much.
Why didn’t people give meaningful comments?
Why they spoke in cryptic language,
Were they just short of time or they had assumed
serious comments will fetch serious replies.
Baffled by reality and eulogy of such kind
A mirage – I couldn’t trust much.
May be others didn’t like reality
Lots of love is that they all need
Happy and ignorant they would sleep
on unreliable fluffy mattress made out of
unadulterated love of their parents.
Their souls wake them up in the middle of the night
“Life like a rapid river will flush the mediocrity one day”
But they discard it saying
It’s too pessimist- I couldn’t help much.
They were aware of reality and
they had shed bloody-truth from their conscience
seeking only praise from their critique group
where they pledged against passable ‘literature’
when started on this ink-path,
I resist the temptation – I couldn’t reiterate as such.
In writing and in life
Truth is the only survival mechanism
Truth will rise: only when we swim with problems;
not when we stare at them like inert pebbles of shore.
Little procrastination is acceptable but to dupe others
That’s where I draw the line – I couldn’t do such.
