The Vagabond- I sit here writing poems


When, after having read verse, I try
To replicate inside my mind
The tunes I read just before,
I fail, four times out of four.

I don't know why it happens such,
Because I try and try much,
But maybe I try too much,
Off in my search for paradise.

The mountains, seas, and sultry skies
Out my window are not nigh,
All that is there is a brick wall,
And to the songbirds I call and call,

But the songbirds sing shalalala.
I sit here writing poems now
In a language so much not my own.
I sit here writing poems now.


The vagabond talked to me last night and I asked him,
Why do you walk so much?
Don't you have a car?
Why do you walk so far?
What are you searching for?
What? What? What?

I asked the vagabond repeatedly.

He said
Shelly said- "Life is elsewhere"
I'm searching for it.
Rimbaud said- "I is someone else"
I'm trying to find it.
Everything is false
And I'm tring to find the new.

The vagabond died the next day.


I sit here writing poems.
But what to write?
But what to write?

My people,
My humble people,
Who expect nothing.

It all comes like sound
A feeling
A taste
A whisper
A touch
But never in words
Why won't it come in words?

Why can't I write like you?
Like everyone else
Write mediocre songs that get catchy
Write academic verses that get awarded
Why do I write this way?

Noone understands

I pour my heart out
And I write

Write what
Disenchanting words
Distraught words

Fucking words have ruined my life
Tiny little scribbles on a page
Not even a diary
Just a page
My rage
At what?
At everything
And nothing

Fuck you


Madness is a door that leads to nowhere.
Because it's madness, dumbass.


I can't love because I give too little
I can't be loved because I take too less

My whores
My lovely little whores
All turned to words
Noone recognize
My whores
My lovers
My whores
My lovers


"The easiest path to madness is poetry"
Caid Ali


I'll try to be serene now.
Try to make sense,
If you've read this far, that is.
I'll try to make sense.


See, I made it.



Are my verses honest enough?
Are they good?
Are they bad?
Are they good but bad?
Bad but good?

I sit here writing poems.

The vagabond talked to me
He died
The vagabond talked to me
He died
I killed him
He died
I am the vagabond
but noone cares.
Do you?


I have a dream I have every night.

I am standing high on a cliff,
I look down at the masses huddled over,
Above the sky's dark, thunder and lightning abound,
The crowd below making an unpleasant sound,
Some laughing,
Some crying,
Some coughing,
Some shouting,
Some jeering,
Fuck yous and middle fingers abound.
In my arms, pages, pages, pages,
I throw it at them
I throw it at them
And raise my middle finger high.


Sameen Shakya

What did I just do?

Poetry by Sameen
Read 190 times
Written on 2017-12-02 at 07:13

dott Save as a bookmark (requires login)
dott Write a comment (requires login)
dott Send as email
dott Print text

Jamsbo Rockda The PoetBay support member heart!
Great stuff man.

Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
I see what you wrote as a stream of consciousness. You have written beautiful, inspiring poems, but you can't write that every day on demand. At least I don't think so. Open yourself to feel more about everything you see abd experience. Your command of the English language is better than a great many Englush speakers. Just keep writing. I like the idea of the vagabond.