A Misfit Poem by Prakhar Srivastava 2

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.