New Delhi Writing can be interspersed with breathing for me, for I shall write till I die.
Poetry is that one excuse for me to say things aloud, (at times, only to the piece of paper or the blank screen) that I couldn't have, in another conversation with anothe 53 followers / 2.3k words
hoping for the day when i am sitting on the floor sipping my tea and looking up at the windows when the sun rays fall down onto me and warm my skin i am hoping for the day when i will wake up and have forgotten i am waiting for the day when i will feel the sun again.
Claws retract, Prey is trapped, Between death and pain, Pinned and hanged.
Sauntering and sassy, Tearing the flesh with it’s teeth, Not very classy, But the hum of the fur, Attracts another, A growling mutt comes, A feast has begun, No one has won.
We choose life, always against the grain, taken in, savored in the mouth, then spat out with haste, ill gotten gains, worthy sins, blessings felt as we puke over a porcelain basin, we are but dried out clay clinging to the potters hand.
i crept out my back door to meet you on the best night of my life we fought and all i could think was "i love you" i hope one day we can see each other in the light again
we are born a blank canvas and society paints our portrait with its brushes of a thousand rules and regulations expectations and guidelines that supposedly make up who we are supposed to be.