‘Your poetry is full of you’

They said.

Don’t they see that

these are my desperate attempts to-

grab hold of the peeling layers

as the self oozes out of my skin?

Or, may be I wasn’t aware that the

doppleganger had set a mirror-house inside.

with grinning reflections and blinding patterns

that played on my nerves.

The same song on rain and love

has been running on loop for days

and I fail to recollect

even a single line from it.

This untamed mind tires me.

It has seen ‘Waste Lands, Confessions and suicide notes’.

and is bent on seeking  those hide-outs-

where shadows mate and the self is dragged out of the womb.

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