18/M/PH A poem, my brethren, is not just a sentence cut into lines for God's sake. It is a weapon where we channel in our utter yearning amidst the infinite taste of reality. 7 followers / 217 words
A butterfly stays in a king’s bush, laden with blush roses— an orphan of the garden. Home of the yesteryear, now thorn whips cracked By old wardens. Flee, you blossom flapping. Flee, for your proboscis seeks for sanctuary, Not a casket.
he consumes his life counting apples from a mango tree still thawing itself from a snowy bath whereas she wastes her growth as a ripened fruit in spring waiting to be handpicked by him
You are not speaking but I’m already listening. I’ve been shouting out your name from miles that the echoes only fill my mind. I keep chasing the sprint of your voice along with this selfish space that keeps us apart. If you never cared, never noticed, never realized, at least repay all the stares I have stolen from you. Feel the glances I’ve bitten away from you. For these starving eyes will battle the pain in its gut until you feed them with yours.