Subjective Poem

My poem is subjective.
It feels.
It reels in horror,
steals into the corner,
when confronted with life.

My poem is subjective.
It understands itself,
sometimes only too well
and reaches for a knife

My poem is subjective.
It hears,
cares mountains,
cries oceans in dispair
when confronted with life.

My poem is subjective,
crawling, watchful,
hiding in the night.
Not noticed,
its identity shrouded in metaphor,
searching for life.

My poem is subjective,
suggestive, neglected,
an object detected,
no longer respected.

My poem is subjective.
Seems like hell on the page.
Outrage.
Can't be true.
Symptom of our time of life.

- by Prajna Pranab, 1998