I dreamt to be
Everything
One can be
But deep in
I knew, I was
writer who
wrote no concrete
verse, but bits—
and crumbs
with Self bred
conscious ebbs.
I wished, I was
A Musician!
But not to be.
So chose
Scribbling poems
I didn’t understand
or did poems
chose me?
Cause they
understood me?
No punctuations
Just as thoughts
Strings sans end
Just as memories
I knew not
What I thought.
Why then do
dreams occur
Stuck With me
in Eternal Maze
No escape
And abrupt
End…
~T T “Papermate“~
Papermate is just another face in the maddening crowd.
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