• anunknownknownpoet 10w

    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

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