Who is the poet

I am the one who haven't yet left the womb
That carries him
Still I a womb that harbours  bitter and sweet
I am mysterious to the taster's buds
I had names clung to my forehead
The one who is not a partisan to any
I, the one who fell to renunciation of blood lineages
The one who fell to the slums
Or I am the slum

Time failed to tell of me
My existence and my non-existence
I seem to be an opposite of who I am
And an opposite of whom their skulls are struck as to be
As a definition or narration of my slippery genesis
I am the one who skinned you
To take off your pants and exploit your rot aisles
No! It wasn't me
Ill-fate the word

I am  a bout
As bare-handed as you think
For my being well-heeled resides in my skull
I am your crony
Yet you 'll yell me a debris of your torn now
May be I am such a step
But I am just a poet
Two tails;
Two heads
I am an unexpected storm