Surreal, an Empty chasm.
Darkness with light.
Lighted darkness,
surrounds me.
Devours my skin.
Floating void, uneasy and inescapable.
Voiceless and soundless it seems.
In this known unknown,
Twinklers read the Prophecy.
I am birthed,
source unknown.
Visible, can be seen,
source unknown.
Light up, gleam but not twinkle,
source unknown.
I shall die, conspired by the unknown.
Born again by the unknown.
Untrodden words, silence me.
When Sapiens shall come alive out of
death, disparity, dreams and desolation;
shall I be assassinated in the hands of the unknown.
Infuriated, insulted and inspired;
I behold my Katana and behead.
Falling, drowning, draining in the inescapable.
After every 29 Deathly hollows,
I die, I ****.

My mother told me to leave my mark
wherever I went.
When I asked her what did she mean,
She told me,
How she wanted me to leave
my name and my brand
as a symbol and signature
of my 'identity'.

'Identity', how would it look like...
Will it be tall so that it can
reach success even without climbing up.
Will it be hour-glass with curves
large enough to be liked.
Will it be fair so that it can be lonely too.
Will it be rich so that it can purchase Bugatti and Bentley.
Will it be smart so that it can create its success if it is not provided with any.
Will it be beautiful so that it can make people stop and stare.
Will it be kind so that it heals and saves what has been killed.
Or will it be soft so that it weighs every word before it speaks?

But then my mother told me your identity is 'you'.
But I cannot become my identity because I am not a signature to be looked at or a mark to be left.

So when I looked up in the dictionary
I found how mark is synonymous for
1.Stain
that I got on my sweatpant this morning.
2.Bruise
that has covered my neck like a mosaic painting.
3.Scratch
that has been carved on my legs by my own hands.
4.Blemish
that I have thrown on my parent's name and 'identity'.
5.Blot
that has covered my pages and hands because my pen is broken.
6.Scar
that stays on my heart.
7.Label
that I have put on myself and let others call me by it.
8.Identity
that I do not have.

My mother told me to leave my mark wherever I went.
But, wherever I went,
I gained one.

She preferred to be 'the villain'
instead of 'a hero'.

Every day, as the clock ticks
and I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is an interruption
and another interruption.

So whenever,
I pick up my pen to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
My mother shouts from a corner of her room.
Her voice crashes to every notorious wall
that claps with its ears.
She asks me to do her a favour
and every time this happens,
the favour she asks me to do,
somehow slit the throat of the wire
that holds the chandeliers of my words.
In the end,
my words fall into the wells of my eyes
and my poems turn me blind.
So every day, I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is interruptions.

So whenever,
I turn to a blank page to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
The clouds race with each other
and the sun becomes their referee.
They chase the wind that carries out the Great Prison Escape organised by Bushell.
The lightning cheers for them in awe
and thus pauses in Argentina for 16.73 seconds.
When they finally reach across the finish line,
It looks like my negative 1 has turned
into positive after crossing 0.
They shed all their sweat like a camelia bush.
My words disappear and what remains is a wet page,
Still blank.
So every day, I sit to write a poem,
all I receive is interruptions.

So whenever,
I sketch some lines and curves to words,
to write a poem,
I get interrupted.
My thoughts begin to perform flamenco.
They lift their filters in the air
so that I can see my imperfections,
to which I chose to turn blind
as the pieces of the chandelier have left nothing in my eyes.
So when my thoughts finally conclude their performance.
My pen stands dried
as if someone stole the gold thread,
I was going to perform kintsugi
on my paper with.
So every day, I sit to write a poem
all I receive is interruptions.

So whenever,
I begin penning my words to write a poem.
I get interrupted.
My surrounding performs an orchestra,
While I run to my words like
two lovers separated by fate.
My hair race with the clouds that just stopped,
for they were tired.
I jump through the hurdles that
the leaves outside
and the people inside my window create,
and while I jump,
They pull my hair
and a few strands fall.
With every strand,
my poem disappears.
So by the time I reach
and kiss my words,
I become full of words
but 'poem-less'.
So every day, I sit to write a poem
all I receive is interruptions.

If the blood in the body
was a dictionary,
Yours would have skipped the word love.

He enjoys listening to me,
but hardly understands or believes
what I tell him.
I think for him,
I am nothing but mythology.

If the twinkling of stars could have created a sound,
Your voice would have been the one.