What other people do is they subliminally dwell into deep thoughts and write metaphors of metaphors, rent classified emotions from pictures and the view outside the damn window or something that no mind has ever clicked before and spread their sheer intelligence on papers,
I adore their beauty but I never felt single string of them connected to me I feel we are just living different lives that's it.
but at the other side, me, I am an undeveloped mind, I couldn't make myself up from my own chaos
So what I do is I tear my own skins shed some warm blood on pale pages, pileup them with, broken grammar and cliches and attach it with a colorful background and share them to readers
Oh I donot own any masterpiece as long as I know my every single poems are my life events, if they are good and touching believe me I'm living in much worst scenario you've ever thought of it.
The memories, the sadness I engulfed in, they can't be as same as my poetries, My poetries are the white color bandages over my pains if somebody saw the real scars they may run away and get scared of me.
People wear dresses and perfumes to impress, I wear blood and essence of death to show my reality I am a local train of Delhi, my passengers are deadbodies.
Even the night for me is not a night It is place where I can smoke cigarettes, more often only music owns me sometimes, and from the miles I feel someone's crying for me
my torn bedsheets are pleasurable, No cushions are ever made for me I'm a thorn people reject me, Only After broken, people wish for me
I've a black hole in my mind where every taunts stick to it I am not a poet, but just a scribbler I'm writing my own miseries