In another world, I will write a poetry that will not be about pain, grief, sadness or death.
A poem where spaces between words didn't look like graveyards of emotions. A poem whose belly is filled with butterflies and pixie dust and not with every kind of ache. A poem whose arms engulfed every sinner and painted each of their sin as a beautiful Metaphor.
Someday I will write a poem with a face remotely resembling happiness. A face for which Picasso was resurrected from his deep sleep.
It was inhuman of you to crave for my love, I gave my all in service, Yet, you crippled my heart and left. If you did not need me anymore, For kindness' sake, I'd preferred You shoot me dead in my place. At once free me, end the misery and torment, Don't leave me breathing, Yet, numb and lifeless.