The Last Honest Poem

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 I wander through the rain-washed streets of city

a half-starved poet carrying a sky full of unwritten songs.
My pockets hold nothing but crumpled pages,
yet within them sleep entire worlds.
The city rushes past me.

Men in pressed suits discuss success,
their voices shining brighter than their hearts.
Publishers weigh words against profit,
friends measure worth by position and wealth,
and even love is auctioned
to the highest bidder.
I offer them my poetry.
They ask who has praised it.
I offer them my soul.
They ask what it is worth.
So I walk alone.

At tea stalls, railway platforms, crowded markets,
I watch people worship names instead of truth,
statues instead of living hearts,
appearances instead of humanity.
The world loves mirrors.
I carry windows.
Yet among those whom society calls fallen,
I discover compassion.

A nightingale abandoned by respectability
reads my verses as if they were sacred scripture.
She sees not my torn shirt,
nor the dust upon my feet,
but the fire I hide beneath my silence.

In her gaze I am neither failure nor success.
I am simply human.

Meanwhile, the guardians of morality
deliver speeches beneath grand banners.
They praise art they do not understand,
patriotism they do not practice,
virtue they do not possess.

Their applause rises easily.

Their kindness rarely does.

I have learned that hypocrisy
often wears the cleanest clothes.

Still, I refuse to bend.

I will not polish my truth
to fit the taste of the powerful.
I will not trade integrity for comfort,
nor transform my wounds into entertainment.

Let hunger be my companion.

Let loneliness share my room.

Better an honest struggle
than a celebrated lie.

For what is fame?

A crowd shouting your name
after refusing to hear your voice.

What is success?

A palace built upon the ruins of oneself.

I have seen how society treats its poets.

While they breathe, they are burdens.

When they die, they become legends.

The same hands that ignore them today
will carry their portraits tomorrow.

The same mouths that mock them now
will recite their verses with reverence.

Recognition arrives carrying flowers
to graves it once passed without notice.

But I do not write for monuments.

I do not write for applause.

I write because the human heart
deserves a language beyond money.

I write because love is understanding,
not possession.

Because compassion is greater than respectability.

Because truth survives
even when buried beneath indifference.

And if one day my name disappears
like rainwater into the river,

let it be said only this:

That I walked through a world obsessed
with wealth, status, and appearances,
and still believed
that talent mattered more than fame,
that dignity mattered more than success,
that kindness mattered more than reputation,
that integrity mattered more than acceptance,
and that a single human soul, truly understood,
was worth more than all the applause on earth..











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