The Poem

"That's creative" said the elitists, at my birth

 inspected me and judged me for my worth

Sad scars that made me were romanticized

and my melancholic beauty was dignified 

"Oh how novel, how beautiful!" they all said

tenderly recited me, over and over I was read

"I am so privileged " for a moment I thought,

but with just another thought, it all fell apart

More often than not, I know, this is not my fate, 

many a times, my life is as sad as I was made

for I am burnt or hidden, concealed in a casket

This indeed, has been my life's recurrent facet

Once she trusted me, and poured out her heart 

That once I was dear to her, now all is a wrath 

Unjustly glorified, I am a wretch born of sorrow, 

more often, I do not see the light from morrow

I think, I make her ashamed by my presence  

like a evil hoodlum, in her peaceful existence 

betraying secrecy, proclaiming her weakness

embodying her confused emotions and sadness 

I am the poem that she lovingly writes,

I am the poem whose presence she spites,

I am the poem that expresses concealed unsaid

The poem whose feelings sadly stays unexpressed 

I am the poem who is trusted with dark and deep

emotions and fears, many secrets I should keep

The poem that feeds on sorrow and feasts on fear

I am the poem, that you would never read, Oh dear!