These Words aren’t Mine...

These words aren’t mine,they are embedded imprints, of things I haven’t read and moments I crave visiting...

These words aren't mine, they are harmless anecdotes of mighty intellects and the departed...

How I abstain from reading novels authored by numerous visionaries as, I fail to relive stories that have been misinterpreted and, slowly lost meaning...

These words come as images and dreams sometimes, transforming my mundane reality. I don't write them, they write me...

They flow effortlessly, yet they resist my suggestions, as I'm bound to write their story and that's, what I've been penning down all along...

These words aren't mine, and I don't bother, but rejoice being used as a chanel for transmitting infinite encounters...

Isn't it complicated? Aren't we frustrated with reading such monotonous flat tales of the unknown...

Where's the substance? Where's the content? Where's the ability to create stories with cliché ends?

We are the meaningless, we are the misfits, we are the one's merging opposites...

We are distorting the known,we are welcoming the unknown. This is madness, this is a mistake, this is a sadist breaking down the norms of the written language...

These mighty entities fear being labelled for expressing thoughts of a century fragrant with eternal passion...

When they cry, I sob intensely and their exuberances ignite one's forgotten childhood...

They are in me, we are in sync, as they demand, I shall implement...

There's no guilt, no need for approval as these are, simply instances that never happened...

So, I end my poem here as these words aren’t mine, nor, this is my story…

-Nitya

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