The Poetry.

The poetry is the deep philosophy of the cry and laugh. It is the unseen language which touches our soul bitterly and joyful. The poetry is the skin of sensibility and the incredible race among the clouds. It is the pouring of the blue sky in our opening hearts. The poetry is the art of the mess …

The dreadful detachment

My conscience was  Collapsed, shattered,  And deranged. Every passing day I had to question my sanity,  And regain my clarity.  Our life revolved around Us. And now, What are the promises for? “Friends Forever” Was it just a phrase? I try and erase the memories from my mind but I’m unable to succumb my heart…

Lunar-tic.

I’d spit venom as words Hate till it hurts. Turn our lives in to One twisted curse. I’m indecisive. Scattered. Choices never mattered. I’m stagnant. Don’t try fixing the shattered. I’m inhumanely cold. I rage uncontrolled. Some stories Should just never be told. And yet my galaxy Spins around a memory. The paradox within me…

A language yet to be written.

There are parts of you that cannot be held by poems or paintings or songs, but I hold them in my desolated heart. I am that naïve damsel with sad songs in her fingerprints and smoky sunset in her eyes. It’s you who run through the lyrics of those honeyed words and amorous love songs….

Without light.

Heavenly light Pouring through the sparkling lens Of my window.   Dancing rainbows Of light Against my brow.   I always thought I was too Undeserving of heaven, But I realize I am too strong.   For hell, Because I could never be the nightmare Or monsters who broke me;   I have no remorse…

Incarnation

I have no words to proper describe my feelings right now, Thinking about those days when you used to crack jokes and how we used to guffaw.  Those days when you used to drop me in my class and tell me to study well and not cry, When all I used to do was cry…

Count of my Breath

I have been through mazes and hurt multiple times; The men I trusted Breaking me apart, The wrist’s been cut; And the bleeding hasn’t stopped. This path isn’t expanding, But I am making way to the oncoming, Back’s been patted And my thick hair’s plucked, I ain’t moving But the walls are closing in. The…

The Journey

Perhaps what we recognise is pain,  Perhaps it is exhaustion,  Fatigue from the burn of life.  Perhaps her eyes are telling you, ‘Remember me, do not forget this dusty space coloured in vibrant hues, this humble abode which has nurtured our existence. The doors of which we are birthed and we depart from. ‘ Perhaps…

Fidget Spinner

The curtains danced as the fan swayed against it. The entire room was empty without a noise, except for its motor. His feet were cold. His eyelids shuttered with the seconds of the clock. The ashtray was filled and he lost count on how many he has had so far. Staring at the plain wall,…