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Whenever someone
compares you to poetry,
be sure
you'll never
let them go.

If poetry is a way
of survival,
then
they'll never be able
to spend
any other day
without you.
Yes , I know it.
Even In the darkness of my dark beating heart , I know I would have loved him , all right .
You see ?
Even the dead has a heart.
Post breakup tantrums
Messy hair , sleepy face
Blurred vision or the pace ?
Somewhere a knife lay hidden,
A seer pain and urge starts within.
Was it my end or 'the beginning'?
Oozing blood , down my hand
Loosing grip on my life
And death , by my side .
I laid down and looked at the stars in the sky
and wondered why they are up so high.
Seeking attention of the viewers eye
and can only be felt with a sensitive sigh.
But don't you think they are high and dry?

Unlike the clouds he can't shed tears.
He had many pains , but no one to hear .
His life to him was so precious and dear
But now he is going to face his worst fear
that , by dawn he would forever disappear.
But does he deserve the phase he bears?

Similarly , seemed the case of the clouds
They're on the verge of tears , I doubt .
The whole bunch seems to burst out loud
But can't determine the reason in the crowd.
But why are their ethereal face been moult ?

Her curly hair was dripping wet.
Her braws were lined with regret .
She got many reasons to fret ,
and many heartaches over which she had wept .
But does she deserve the fate she had met?

— The End —