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It is what it is
This thing between us
Cigarettes between your lips
The careful touch of your fingertips


It is what it is
This thing you don’t care about
Saying you hate me all day long
From your mouth it sounds like a song


It is what it is
This thing that consumes us
Bruised necks and stained sheets
It’s more than a fight between athletes


It is what it is
This nothing that will last forever
The weight of the world light as a feather
Just as long as we stay together


It is what it is
*I think love might feel like this
i am a mere word of this page
and you are the phrases i admire most that i can't have.
at least give me a proof of sentence,
that i am still part of your paragraph.
i've never thought that this boundless sea of whiteness
can be so lonesome.
the large gap between us and other words,
feels like the vastness of the ocean,
drowning me in and out of the pages.*

©IGMS
the untold story of the lonely word
 Jul 2016 Tryst
Prathipa Nair
With red of blood on the
Road they lie dying
In front of our eyes
For help they cry
With the fear of facing
Consequences we
Leave them on the way

Being torn into pieces
By some *** maniacs
In front of our eyes
For help they cry
With the fear of being
Attacked ourselves we
Leave them on the way

With the fear to react
And to shield ourselves
Our selfish heart being
Locked in a prison
Let us first give freedom
For our heart to react
Opening our mouth

To save the helpless as
A team against the evils
Joining hands together
And that will be a day
Of real freedom !
 Jul 2016 Tryst
Prathipa Nair
Wish being a wolverine
With sharp bone claws
One who touches women
Without her sufferance
Sure to count the stars
Claws pierced not into his
Stomach but his viral eyes
Making him blind to search
His own evil parts !
drip. drop. drip. drop.
hear the pain?
dancing under the purple rain
*

©IGMS
'cause the rain is the bravest of all
for it is not afraid to fall
and you're all deaf
'cause you don't hear
the hurt of
-
and you're all blind
'cause you don't see
the color of
-
the falling purple rain
 Jun 2016 Tryst
Ignatius Hosiana
An Author is as good as his Editor
*a poet as good as his emotions
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