Although you know too well
That I always perceive myself as
One of the newest souls out there...
But there are moments when
I can't help feeling that
Maybe... just maybe
Poetry was written by me
Even one or two hundred years ago too.

Maybe inside a small bedroom
On the first floor of a wooden palace
In a vague Usonan country side...
I wrote words that were
Laced with love, beauty,
Urge, sorrow and freedom,
On offcut scrap pages
With a blunt tipped graphite pencil.

Maybe sitting beside a water body,
You were suppressing your laugh
At my constant ranting over
The discomfort of wearing
A corset even during menstruation.
And, I got vexed at the thought
Of your ignorance, overlooking
The helplessness behind your laughter.

Maybe you put your arms around me
And like always I forgot
About the wounds on my body...
Of course, you knew that
Your touch were too anaesthetic
For my pains or burns.
You always knew all my messes...
On the irony, it was I who was ignorant.

Although we changed nothing
And sphere was as hostile as it could be,
Stinging us with its closet of restraint...
But the words never stopped coming out
Of that bedroom on the first floor.
So, maybe... just maybe
Poetry can still be written in a bedroom,
Despite getting zero flower in return.