By Keertana Pisharody
I glanced at a page which stuck to my mind,
And often reappears, but never fun:
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none.”
I gather stiff brushes to tint my canvas
And stab it till its blood starts to run.
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none.”
I pick up my untuned, dusty guitar
And stammer on chords one by one.
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none.”
Inking my tears, yet not catching them all,
I fail in making sense out of what’s done.
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none.”
I ramble and drain out corrosive words,
And dissolve people with my tongue so blunt.
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none.”
My ‘trophy shelf’ lays fully stagnant,
With a hung medal and its skeleton.
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none.”
My oven is coated with black char,
As I repel smoke with a burnt bun
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none.”
I look in the mirror and compare myself,
With an ideal, but nothing in common.
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none.”
Unopened books get attacked with termites,
Who
avenge my prey with sheer aggression.
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none.”
People tend to call this ‘talent’,
They say I have much to share;
While giving in to my messy facade-
An unseen anti-Midas flare.
So I decided to go back to read the page,
With my brain that carefully strung letters.
Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick
To jump to a conclusion for my verse.
“Jack of all trades,
Master of none;
But oftentimes better
Than a master of one”
By Keertana Pisharody
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