Poets are simply the subaltern,
Downtrodden by reasons,
Overshadowed by the logic and glamorous flair
In the vast spacious colony of literary genres.
Condemned by those at helm
Yet we still have the empathetic sympathy
Unlike all antipathetic writers of contemporary times.
We are the populist poets, not the puppets
Of cheap popularity, and misleading materialism
That has eaten into the vitals
Of democratic conscientiousness
The rest talk, discuss and sell like hotcakes
In the name of ephemeral power
Of their flaunting imperialistic writings
Minting money in the name of temporary entertainment
By writing fictions, non-fictions or bottom
Of the fractious minds ensnared
By their narcissistic boasts
As they sell today like anything
So they keep in good books of today's publishers' guild.
Readers are nothing but the befooled democracy
Howled by the politicized pens of the writers
Who change the color of their inks
To fit into the skin of the hypnotized people.
They tune their words, sentences -
Contents and intents
For persuading them into their trap.
Long live the poets! For they alone feel
The beats of poor hearts sustaining the essence
Of love, harmony, compassion and humanity
That has been flowing for goodness
Since time immemorial
They ink themselves black and white
Reddened in the sweat and blood of those people
Often cut off from the mainstream.