• souravmudgal 11w

    The aftermath of the
    hush inside my head
    always results as
    some words, stabbed
    on my fingertips but
    they couldn't bleed.
    I stood long enough above
    the bridge constructed
    through the pallid bones
    of survivors, my feet drift
    to the end but not in a
    sensible manner you may
    call it a mystery or
    name me as schizoid.
    Words are the only thing
    I crave for, I always
    wanted to end my verses
    in a soothing way maybe
    there is nothing that appears
    soothing when I write.
    Synonyms take me to the
    path where I get caught
    by the people who sob
    silently or sometimes I catch
    new metaphors of pain.