Maybe the reason we spend night after night
staring at a blank paper
is because the words we so desperately need to write,
are words that have not yet been created.

The stinging nettle only
Will still be found to stand:
The numberless, the lonely,
The thronger of the land,
The leaf that hurts the hand.

That thrives, come sun, come showers;
Blow east, blow west, it springs;
It peoples towns, and towers
Above the courts of Kings,
And touch it and it stings.

I stopped pulling you towards me two pieces ago,
when you sliced my vision and ****** out the nectar,
tied the rope around my neck and dropped your anchor.
I tangled the nightmare of you in the wire of my mattress,
and punished your memory with a solid glass of wine
in my closet at two in the afternoon after I had to see you
push in the lock with her laughter on the other side of the door.
I’ve ignored you from the crowd, designed your ****** in my salad bowl,
had to kiss you through chocolate box comforts and a movie.
So, forgive me, if I don’t wrap myself around your infatuation (again)
all because you’ve taken an insomnia interest in me— excuse me,
my body. I don’t want to sound whiny in the form of a line,
but working you through my words and glazing
the misshapen mold I have of you with a poem or two
is the only solace I’ve found in these months of looking down when you pass
and cursing myself in the shower when I think my roommates are asleep.
This felt like falling in love until you had to blacken me
with your own corrupt expectations, until you took me
like a vile little shot and burned me all the way down.

But here I am, freshly rinsed and freshly pried open
from the loneliness, ready to accept your sins like a rotten Eucharist.
No matter the distance or the self-promising or the wasted
advice written on this paper every single night—

I’ll let you skip to the ending. I promise to wear my boots
back to my room and carry my jacket like the heart
you always give back when you’re finished.

Story of me

Frankly
I am not Gautham(nick name)
I am Babu(given name)

Amateur writer

Am waiting for
A meaning of life

this was my dream

Not at all satisfied
And convinced
With my work
Here

Credits to all my
Inspirations
Especially
Joe cole
Elizabeth squires
Pradip chattopadhyay
Marian(her family Hilda,Timothy)
Venusoul
There are more
Sorry for my disability
couldn't mention everyone
By name

Your eyes are the world's driest desert begging for the safe waters of destiny.

The lonely path I have known,
No comfort sought,
No compassion,
Scorned pity.
O'er the darkened hill,
Patches of darker blood,
To this pen they are drawn,
My heart controls my hand,
Absence of mind.
The draining bond.
Great mountains remember me,
I wound around you for miles,
After where the sycamore grows,
I sat down right there and stretched my bones.
Listening to the wind, lo the whispering flows.
I'm still searching for myself,
I lost I on the morn of darkest day,
Worries about the morrow.
Searching for something to strangle the sorrows,
That something for myself,
To chase away the shadows
                                                   -**Firefly