they say
"i don’t get it."
as if the words I write are puzzles
and not seances
with the bones of my childhood.

they want metaphors that purr,
not ones that bleed.
Many don't like
teeth in the fruit.

my poems are not
for mouths that chew politely.
they are for those
who’ve sat inside silence
and still carry
the shape of the scream.

Writing is the equvalent of
plucking out the wires
stitched into my throat
and spelling out
a map
for anyone who’s ever felt
too much
to speak.

so no,
you don’t have to get it.

this was never for the ones
who only read
with their eyes.

Being an Introvert,
Doesn't mean being aloof nor rude
It is rather an art of living....alone
Our shyness is mistaken for insolence
And our being alone for having an attitude
Our trusted companion(mind) gives all the company that is needed
It fills us with thoughts so deep,
Another would drown in them
Feeling are so pure,
Angels would bow down to them

Words catch in my throat.
A thousand fears chew at my fingertips.
Terror... Valour.... Loneliness.
It all amounts to shadows on the river.
Lights play over living currents,
Her fluid movement
Shifts the gleam across the waves.
Courage is a trembling lip,
A denial of self,
A strangulation of excess emotion;
Amidst temptation...
Amidst the tempest...
Amidst self doubt.
Somewhere the steel of your jaw
becomes more than a daydream.
Morphine can't even ease this pain.
I lose my breathe.
I wait for death.
And yet, somehow, I wake again.

Most of us write
of how bitter
our first kisses
tasted

Mine
tasted like
a limited edition candy
found in an old candyshop
after three years

Like
exhaled smoke
of  your first
mentholated cigarrete

it tasted
like home
after years of
being lost