• thehemantkashyap 22w

    Talk. It helps.


    Read More


    My mind leads me to believe
    that my skin is a canvas
    that I can scrawl on it
    like a journal I can revisit and add to:
    no wonder I like my
    hoodies and my full sleeves.
    My friends tell me
    that my words feel beautiful,
    but I can't really tell japes
    from compliments:
    sad, really, but oh well.
    Once every day
    I'm forced to look
    to look at my work
    my masterpieces:
    verses and prose
    and an occasional quartet.
    I fear that my words
    are not mine to read;
    I don't comprehend
    the reasons behind,
    nor the depth.
    I scratch and screech and
    utter utter gibberish:
    and the audience applauds.
    Someday, I'm afraid,
    I might run out of space
    I might have collected far
    too many memories.
    That rugged old canvas
    is a hot mess of obscenities now.
    Sometimes I fear I fear too much.
    I hope to shed
    the covers someday, though
    To be like the wind:
    unbothered and unwavering
    ephermal and forgetful.
    I hope to transcribe
    my scars someday:
    To be like
    Bukowski, Neruda, Poe
    someone of that lot.
    For my soul still
    lacks the fingerprints of my demons.