Am I all that different?
Of what am I so proud?
Can I stand myself apart?
Or do I just mingle with the crowd?
Am I hopelessly shackled to verbal inventiveness?
Have I lost the art of being mundane?
Am I forever supposed to be creatively different?
And is my pursuit of literary greatness insane?
Why can't I pick my own roman nose??
Or strip my fingers of their nails?
Why can't I create a public ruckus at the drop of a hat?
Why should I write letters when I can use email?
Is there a rule that's built to govern human behaviour?
One that forces us to desist from being ourselves?
Maybe thats why all those wonderful thoughts I think
are gathering the dust of unspokenness on my mind's shelves
How technical can you get at poetry?
Is this now, an art form or a science?
Can I not combine a flowing rhyme with free verse
I mean, Can't I just mix up the lines??
What awards in life do we covet?
Should we write acceptance speeches in advance?
And how horrendous a scene if we were unprepared,
if we did win on an offchance
Is there a pattern to the way that people react?
Or is all human emotion just a sham?
I know I'm asking very many stupid questions
But I can't help it, That's the way I am
Answers galore, I seem to find,
when the questions aren't floating around
Ofcourse when they do make an appearance,
Well I dunno, I guess I'll just have to have this poem rewound...
- October 17th 2004