Anxiety?
Kind of ,
Me,
Deleting the posted poems
To maintain a pattern
'is it even like mine asthetic ?'

Earlier,too
I have turned my back to you

She could be more lost than anybody as though no akin
She could be more distorted than the moon's skin
She could be more sceptical than what eclipses bring
She could be more pessimistic than March equinox
She could be more cynical than the devils in abyss
She could be more sadistic than Harley Quinn
She could be more ghastly than decapitated heads
She could be more dead than a corpse itself  
But when she rose,
You know ?
She attributed him in nothing
His relics are buried
And I ?
I donot care with delight by my side

My neck feels so anxious
The last time it had laid on a pillow
It felt an utter discomfort
Where on the bed should my hair be placed
For each strand has grown so tall with such a pace
My callus is so pale
Frozen are my palms
Lips fall dead dry ,no, I don't apply any flavoured balm
Eyes behold an anchor upon
I curl up under the sheets
But by the morning I'm fresh and flushed.

You can delve it out,
Without sinking into it.
If it is to be said
It has to be said blatantly.

Committing mistakes ,
Dwelling in it ,afterwards,
Or
Accepting it.