Impractical Unsolicited Advice

Rejections are feathers on a writer’s cap

I am the consummate unsuccessful writer — the kind that lurks at the periphery of the established writers’ playground. Remember that kid sitting alone in the park because no one would play with him (or her)? The awkward, timid one cut off from the usual boisterous crowd? …

In a house without windows,
Just the door unassuming to
Pass by at will, and four walls
Within those perhaps he waits
Restless for tragedy to unfold.
He has a boring day job and
Weekend nights of laundry
For his twin overpants,
Pair of spandex suits obsolete,
And two tattered crimson capes.

No villains left to slay,
He loiters purposeless,
Watching cable news all night,
Slouching on his couch,
Nursing a paunch,
He decays longing
For yesterdays on earth,
Of soaring highs, mayhem
Unleashed and prayers
For a mighty messiah he craves.

As order abounds, he knows not
His place- a relic, a fossil,
A national treasure redundant?
No damsels, blazing effigies
Or crumbling colosseums await.
Turned anachronous,
He retires mortal of equal rank
To all piteous humans around,
For there lies Kryptonite here-
The elusive peace he fought to shield.

© Arati Nair 2021

Arati Nair

Content writer, avid book lover, amateur poet and bizarrely imaginative commoner.

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