On the day
her body burned
she asked the
winds to be
her friends
and they
picked her
up and poured
her through
the fingers of
their hands
like a river
without ending
that won't
be tied or
bound, until
every trace of
dust embraced
the freedom it
had found.

art isn't a thing
it is a fractured composure
misunderstood by defiants
yet rises to better expectations of reliance

art is praised
through the melodies of random kindness
through the pictures of story-telling
through the written speech of your imagination

art is a soul
that is purely intoxicated
pre-judged with mere perfection
consoling the lightworker in you

art is you
bestowed to eradicate mediocrity
created to being inanimacy to life
distinguished for an exciting simplicity.

Mental notes
Scribbling across
Mind and heart
Voiceless words
In subconscious
Lest we forget
Invisible diary
Pages of drivel
Given importance
Nonetheless
Stacked up
Are volumes
Of such diaries
Shelved on shelf

That I know..

You are very much hurting everyday
You feel like you just can't get away
Tears of blood cloud in your eyes till you can't see
Hurting and hurting longing to be free

Tears congregate and form into a puddle
Silently you are masking the pain, the struggle
All these while you are suffering in silence
Quietly resisting the emotional violence

You lift your eyes, but dimmed with grief
Your sorrow lends but only weak relief
You die everyday, you are wearied
It's like you're dressed at the funeral of regret, not yet buried

The stabbing pain you don't wish to bare
Nothing could make you feel better even if you share
You are gathering the strength you have in your soul
To beat the drums, feed the fire with coal

You are dipping your pain in inkwell heart
And scrawling out what you are feeling
Those words becoming the tourniquet
You don't know when your heart will stop bleeding