Literary ‘dead’

Brooding Secrets

Pen; a shamefully legalized sword and
a paper of forced reflections, I am just
a rented massacre frantically walking on a narrow lane,
burdened with ostracized thoughts and glimpses of reality;
denied, I was once told that my words have the power
to change the stagnant and uplift the meek voices,
but I am a fiction; dead, poetry; marginalized,
a novel unheard
for all they wear is white and all I know is to stain.

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About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on August 14, 2017, in Poem - Not Written By Me Though, Reposted from elsewhere. Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. This is interesting. Very interesting.

    Liked by 1 person

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