Do Poets Die Lonely?


Am looking for answers
Responses to philosophicals
As to whether my part time profession is really worth it
The hustle and constant juggles with alphabeticals
The life of a poet

Since childhood the language has been my trade
My art, my hobby, my talent
My source of joy and fulfillment
But not anymore… not anymore

Distaste has finally crept in
Reality of my life glaring back
My sweet words no longer soothing my own ears
Leaving me empty… desolate

He who pays the piper calls the tune
What about the piper?
Does anyone care whether or not they existed?
Or is there a time the product worth more than the producer?
That’s my sorry state summed up

My words make pick up lines
Repair broken relationships thought to be irreparable…
And cement wobbly and stable unions in equal measure
However, not my own heart
Not my own desire

Am left to be as great as the words I speak
When I stop the talk then none stays
Back to square one!

I crave for love…
To love and be loved
To appreciate and be appreciated
To feel the emotional embrace for who I am
And never for what I do

I wanna die satisfied
Being more than a souvenir
Worth more than mere marvels and excitement from satisfied clients

I want to own and be owned
Even at the final hour
To exit guaranteed to be missed

And not to die Lonely
For making lasting memories!

Ooko Victor

Ookoscope, the way it is!


7 thoughts on “Do Poets Die Lonely?

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