My Poetic Journey

On discovering that I can write too
Like rest of the poets in the world
I'd jump up in excitement and choose my audience
And recite to them all my written stuff.
They applauded and I swelled with more motivation
To make them read more and more
They were just being kind, I later got to know
When I couldn't stop my laugh after reading what I then wrote.

With time I sunk in deeper layers of imagination
People told me that I write about the unsaid things
Some were mesmerised and some were awed
They either understood my writings or absolutely did not.
One of them even came out to tell me
That he has been stealing ideas from my poetry.
I was a little disturbed, there was no way to track
But I knew he couldn't get it written with the same meaning as I had.

Soon the life turned complicated
Since poetry was the direct expression of all my thoughts and feelings
Now I wanted to be read, but not seen through
So I started encoding my poetry with undecipherable cues.
And thence came the readers with interpretations more wilder
What I meant and what they inferred was entirely unrelated
But a new section of responses got added in my treasure
They asked me how I am able to write which only their mind has reflected.

And no sooner I got trapped in the weirder side of life
Despite everything being fine, I was losing myself slice by slice
The truth became too blunt, the lies were charming
The truth became ugly, the lies were embalming.
Though I was prospering, I was losing my poetic side
And now with this quarantine, I confronted the truth I'd been keeping aside
I've lost most of my previous readers now, but have gained some new
Many of them are amazing poets themselves, but it seems pleased are very few.