I don't know what made me
fall in love with you. Was it
your damned smile. I really
have no idea from where
this love is born. You left me
but atleast you could've told
where to put all this love.
Shall I fill my poetry with love
and then let it bleed or should
I bleed to death and then let
my coffin box filled with love.

-

My dry lips caress the
blank hollow hues of
the coppery crimson sky.
And the nebulous
fluffy clouds swallow
my empty voids.
Together we tell tales
having dark espresso
with some Atticus poetry.

-

Frank? Me? No never.
I attach to people quickly.
And if you make me smile,
I attach to you.
Most people describe this as candidness and frankness
But truth be told I'm just another poem
Who's screaming it's words out to get out from his coffin box.

-

Ten fingers in
mud. Lost seven
Got three pearls.

-

My 16 Word February Poem

I'm afraid
my lilies will not
be able to ward off
the smell of graveyard mud.

— % &

-

I always told you to
Fill the holes in my
Life with a shovel.

You never did so
Because we both knew
The hole was you.

-

"Let's talk normally."
Tiny cluster of air
In deep ocean.

-

I'm scared of writing now.
On rare days, I write something
which doesn't even make sense to me.
I really don't feel it's worth the
highlights. They think it's good.
Some people follow me.
The big writers of YourQuote like it.
I feel overwhelmed, on the verge
of crying. But then when I try to read
whatever stuff I've written without calling
it shit, I start to wonder instead.
Silly questions. Why did the girl step
in the mud? Which of the guys who hurt
Me in past I've used as a metaphor here?
Why is he the lotus? Why do I hate my
write-ups so much? Is hating my write-ups
in a way or the other related to him?
When a glass is broken, no two pieces
are exactly broken in the same way.
Some are broken in squares, filled with
dead pansies and aging malt.
Some are broken in triangles, filled with
Frosty handshakes and crispy ashes.
Everyone has a different bruise waiting
to be kissed even if the lips were the same.

-

Why do I always end up writing long letters for the wrong person?
That phase which I thought I had overcome is kicking in yet again.
I just wanna disappear into thin air. I'm finding my write-ups shit
Yet again. Why am I the only one at the end of the day to adore my scars
While you yawn away? Why do I always end up writing poems for
Someone who ain't the worth. Why do I blush when you tease me?
I have had enough and I don't want myself again to be scarred by love.
I felt blessed yesterday, as if things were finally alright but as it always happens.
Whenever you think that life is being kind to you, something bad is lurking up
In the corner. All my closest people have left me. The count keeps increasing.
Yet again I feel that my write-ups are shit. And I guess in a way or the other I'm
Also shit. I wish I could not attach to people so easily. I wish I wasn't frank with you.
I don't wanna smile when someone teases me with your name?
Will I ever be able to write letters and poems for someone who is actually right?
Like a feather, I want to disappear away into this chaos. Yesterday I was successful in
Not thinking about you but that also is one form of thinking about you.
🥀💫🥀

-

एक अजनबी जिसे मैं बस
दस मिनट के लिए जानी थी
वो अजनबी की बातों पर मैं
रात के चार बजे तक हँसती रही।

और एक तू था जिसे मैं
बारह साल से जानती आयी थी
लेकिन तेरे बातों पर मैं तो
रात के चार बजे तक रोती ही रहती थी बस।

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