by Preeyakit Buranasin

If beauty’s all you seek, do turn the page.
I’m ugly, filthy, angry, hard and coarse.
I’m filled with disappointment and my rage
Controls my thoughts and makes my loud voice hoarse.
The pencil father used to draft me, old.
The paper used to craft me, wrinkled, stained.
His hand squeezed tight, his letter strokes were bold,
A blacksmith pounding metal in the rain.
‘Why make me like this, father – ugly, sad?’
‘How can I paint pure beauty,’ Father said,
‘When all I see around me makes me mad.
The only colour I have now is red.
Let other poets paint flowers of blue.
Let me, my son, paint what is true, like you.’

Editor’s Note on Poem:

Poem is not the first poem by Preeyakit Buranasin to feature in Eastlit:

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