On my left wrist,
My left knee &
My memory
I carry the vestiges of 7th May, 2010.

Physical marks of,
A grievous peril
When I was
I was on the death bed, the bed number 7.

Dreaded bed it is,
In the SGRH &
Only those
Hopeless cases with death knocking are granted 7.

Only child I am,
My parents
Were
Apprehensive about my survival from the 20-day coma.

But their worries,
Care & concern
Paid off
And today I write this poem - contrary to what the doctors had initially said.

And the people,
They wince
At My
Scars - Scared from their own instant imagination of the pain that I've been through.

To some other people,
I'm a living miracle
And to others
I am just a man who glorifies his sufferings - to his own merit anywhere and everywhere .

To the ones of the last kind,
I just have the words
That nobody can
Or rather nobody wants to change their thinking or tell them to try knocking their senses off for weeks.