• pooja9 6w

    You don't speak,
    You let it grow inside.
    You add more to it,
    Allow it to choke yourself,
    You kill your voice,
    You die silently,
    You eat your words,
    And then you create,
    That which they call masterpiece,
    Of metaphors and rhymes,
    For them it remains an art,
    And for you it's a new wound.
    That you create to forget an old one.

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    And on certain days,
    You carve out new wounds,
    To obliviate the old ones.