There is a population,
living within me,
resembling to me,
yet different.
Some are arsonists,
some cowards,
some are hypocrites,
some bigots,
some are poets,
some lovers,
some are haters,
some happy,
some are gloomy.
Some poets write,
about love,
some curse separation,
some praise her nails,
some die in her eyes,
some strangled in her hair,
some hanging on her lips–
a population of poets,
destroying everything.
Some wrote poems,
on her hands,
some wrote sonnets,
drawing her jawline,
some wrote couplets,
describing her chin,
some wrote volumes,
sketching that depression,
on her chin.
There is a population,
living within me,
can I find that self of mine,
which somehow,
turned invisible,
within that population?
I have a dream,
to look at that self of mine,
I want to see,
who he is,
an arsonist?
a poet?
a coward?
a bigot?
a lover?

Or nothing at all?


~Irfan Tramboo

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