I was not calligraphed on a page,
Nor performed on a stage,
Never shared between lovers,
Never slipped between covers.

Never rehearsed in a class,
Never sung at a Sunday Mass,
Never acknowledged, never praised;
Never a toast raised.

Never made it to the library,
Was outweighed by snobbery;
Was told I am a scribbling,
With little purpose and no meaning.

But I too smell of ink,
Even my words fall in sync;
Not a song, sonnet, or an ode,
Just a simple heartfelt note.

For those that’ll be forgotten, 
As though never written;
Those that’ll be ripped out and torn,
As though born – unborn.

So, go back to Yeats, Keats, Wordsworth, or Shelley,
While I lie crumpled in this forsaken alley.
Maybe sewage would carry me to the sea –
An unread poem I’ll always be.

…….

Poem by Vikram Bhatti