You want to cast me in that mould,
which I will never get adjusted in,
I am not wax, not iron,
but a wood, a misfit wood.
You try to melt me, I will not melt,
I will burn & burn I will not alone,
my heat will inflame the surroundings,
and all that'll remain of me- cinder, carbon crumbs,
good for nothing.
If you try to fit me without melting,
you have to cut a part of me,
A part that I will lose forever,
A part that was the best of me.
No, I cannot be another of your product, your commodity,
I can not lose my identity,
Yet that is all the fate I have,
A diminishing hope for serendipity.
When I was the branch of a tree,
I grew, and boy did I grow!
But now I cant any more,
for growing needs nutrition, sap,
And sapped have I been of all my nutrition.
I have been hacked, and then will be chopped,
then I will be transformed to a door, or chair,
To cater to needs of wanton Gods,
Then when termites start eating me, and people need me no more,
I will be taken away and burnt and will be replaced by a new door.
Comments about this poem (A misfit by Prakhar Srivastava 2 )
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