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I want to play
I know I'm short
I know I'm scrawny
But give me a chance anyway

I want to play
I know I don't look like much
I will prove my worth
I will prove my stuff

Just a chance
That is all I ask
To have friends
To laugh
To joke
To have fun
he lived
through the pages of her journal
the brushstrokes on her canvas
and the scars on her heart
creative souls always find a way
to keep their memories alive,
even if it's unintentional
 Feb 2019 Ananya Dubey
anonymous
pain is carved into your face;

etched in the circles beneath your eyes;

drawn in the dampness of your cheeks;

inscribed into the depth of your eyes;

cut into the scars of your skin;

I want nothing more,

than to mold you

to take the clay of your skin,

and erase the marks of hurt
I think I'm afraid of being too honest
said the poet to their poetry
oh, don't worry
says the poetry
they only see a mirror
between the lines
 Nov 2018 Ananya Dubey
sir humbug
the job of the artist
is to be
luminous and dangerous

luminous to others
by being
dangerous to themselves

when the words are ripped from the chest,
atmosphere disbursed by the body’s projectile messes,
starburst fireworks,
luminous and dangerous,
luminating the shared night,
laminating your truths,
in poems disguised


and so the job,
our work,
begins
 Nov 2018 Ananya Dubey
rm
on that night
with winter
winds,
hums,
and miserable
breeze,
there he sat,
his eyes
wandering
from right to left
up and down
all around
corners to corners
branching
a thought
to another
a note
to a song
a word
to a poem.

him with his
glances,
stands
and built,
under that
moonlit sky
with starlights,
air filled with
warmth and
frost,
i witness his
cries,
heard his tears,
felt his fears.

i became
an overthinker
from worrying
about the other.
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