My head was a throbbing mass
Of midnight hammers by a spoilt fist:
A non-existent theory gnawing on it
Like bugs on wooden crusts.
An old mirror plagued by a feel of worthlessness,
And slurry confirmation dynamic in every second’s interval
Washed down by trapped foggy breath;
If I could slit my head apart from me,
Then again if only I never existed.
People could judge me better –
As if seated on swivel chairs,
Ready to turn around any moment.
The ink jar plummeted with due debts,
Leaked and stained unforbidden,
Rebelled against margins.
A scared foreign language in the cave of taped tongue
Flung open on the face of a blurred glassy noise,
Like a print of some scraped skin
Of a body returning from wars
On papers, reflecting not like the cracked mirrors;
An art of triumph over self-erosion.