What to do with my past?
Days and years stacked up
Tight like a black mold-
It's heavy. How should I go
Carrying it around?
I heard someone made a
Vegetable garden out of
His fifty years old baggage
To feed the stray cows all
The reap.
Someone I know switched
To smelting and his furnaces
Now produce cheap knives,
That weap in the battlefield
To show solidarity.
I keep fiddling with mine
Against my poor,
Entrepreneurial skills-
Sometimes it becomes
The dog feed and other times,
A factory that processes
Cattle skin.
My half-hearted efforts
Don't stick to one particular thing.
And the piled-up-unsold-shit,
Rots and stinks.
Maybe it was always meant
To be manure.
Maybe I've to rework on
My USP to sell it to the guy
Who grows vegetables.