Why my poems are disjointed.
Because it is not important ofcourse.
My mother’s laundry is more important,
My father’s RSVP mails are more important.
Why are the stories unfinished?
Because they have noone to be written for.
Because I live and breathe in a world
Invaded by others
Others who scratch and demand that I do
Their menial work
Because they’re so busy
So busy saving the world.
So blind, in their own self importance
That I am nothing
More than the use they have of me.
The insensitivity is so deep in their
It doesn’t pierce through the idea
That I can be more
Than what they need or want of me.
My consciousness is not a tame dog
They taught a few tricks but
I am not important.
What I can deliver is important,
My poems are not important
They’re only used to keep me sane
And I can service them without
I am noone, a robot asleep
When they’re not awake.
When they’re not switching me on
For a service.
I am bitter, but I am of no use
If I am not delivering them their service.
My sister is right,
I was born to be of use,
And when I’m not
I am sitting quietly in a corner,
In their heads I am not alive
When I’m not in use.
Slowly they tear all semblance of
Emotion from me
I am not attached to anyone,
Anything and I fill waking
Hours with sleep rather than
Dwell in the emptiness of
Everything I want to be in the
Loneliness of being useless
What can I do for you today?
Will that be all?
Then switch me of
Till I can be of use again, to someone.