Being alive is writing for hours only to save it as a draft.
Living is visiting that draft, editing, and finally posting it.
Either way you're stuck with a shelf,
that collects drafts and not just dusts.

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It waits in queue and doesn't budge when its turn is over.

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Words swallowed before being fed
to blank pages, found its grave.
People snore on you before you can
even sleep and the nights feel longer.
You let your dreams remain dreams;
you are nothing but dead to passion.
People don't talk with your kind of language,
you're suddenly a dumb person.
What you talk about in your head,
to yourself, about you, is enough for your ears.
You don't turn your back when asked, but
you don't turn your head when called.
You give it your all and it leaves you hollow inside.
It has always been between you and me,
you that's me.
It ended long before in you
and now it ends with us.

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Other days marked with red circles.
Sunday adorned with hearts and stars, smirks.
Calendar repeats the same pattern throughout.

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I told Monday to come on Tuesday by saying tomorrow is Sunday.

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The summary of the story you've read for a week.
Too short to cover up all that has been learnt.
Too fast, you don't want to start reading another story.

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Washed and hung the dirty laundry piled up for a week
On the cloth line that's now too tired and hanging
A cloudy sky and I decide to take it back inside~ wet.

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I look at you like how the moon
does at the sun when it's about
to set in the evening.
I show you I have light
enough for myself
to not get engulfed
by the darkness you've made.
Not knowing that the light
always belonged to you
and darkness~ to me.

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Some people let love
to mend their broken soul.
While some let love
to swallow them whole.

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I write on love
not because I'm a poet
made by love but
by another poet
who was in love.

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