If Not A Poet, Who Am I?

By Sagarika Das

In the crevices of my mind,

There were whispers,

Digging and floating,

Seeding and sowing,

Their places on the grounds of my existence,

As if it were their home,

To make themselves known,

Running from my cerebellum,

Following the paths of veins and my arteries,

In the pillars of my spines,

To the inside of my ribcage,

Reaching my heart,

Asking for just one thing,

Wailing for the truth,

Who am I,

If not a poet?

And it would be a lie,

If I said,

That I didn't choke on words,

And didn't still for a moment,

For all, I had as my answer,

Was a roaring silence,

Goosebumps trailing,

My arms,

My calves,

My soul naked in front of my eyes,

Asking would I acknowledge the truth,

For running is vain,

And pain all I will be,

If I don't accept the reflection of my soul's mirror,

Because I'm made up of tapestry,

Carved in words and poetries,

Breathing in the rhythm,

The melodies and Symphonies,

Inking as my identity,

So if not a poet,

Who am I?

If not a weaver of words,

Who am I,

If not carrying an ocean of words,

I'll be drowning,

If not a poet,

I will not be me.

By Sagarika Das