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Cast amidst blood and sweat
on the floor,
I write therein as an intestinal worm.
Having lost my unidentified consciousness
And being overcome by the organic sense,
I cry aloud.
Unable to sit up or budge
Or even to scratch,
I have to lie on unclean cots full of
Sweat-born insects.

I recall,
A great tumult occurs then -
Being thus pushed forcibly,
I come out with vehement strife -
Senseless, breathless,
And deprived of memory.

It's filthy,
It's diabolic,
It's wretched.

It's my history of a birth,
The history of my writing these stanzas...
Repulsive, wriggling.
To be very cautiously avoided.

Mind it,
May be worthless, it's a birth -
Very Heavenly predetermined -
Though so necrotic,
It's a birth,
Mind it.

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The following comments are for "Necrotic Birth"
by Myth

In a Fix...
Though Im hidden
I mirror myself in some measure
In the visible reality,
Under the thick pretext of
Holding habitual talks
About my interior lines.

My interior lines are intangible
Perhaps like everybody
I belong to the realm of
The mysterious;
And the lines,
Something like this poetic vision,
Mirrors my reality-
Of lie,
Of truth,
To anyone else otherwise.

Still, I feel.
Like many others,
Where an innate urge leads me
To say my say in a version of verse.

Or else,
In a pseudo form of self,
I lie?
Its too labyrinthine!
How can I freek out of myself -
Where in senses
I'm not quite aware of
What I'm not?


( Posted by: Myth [Member] On: July 3, 2004 )

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