// I don't know what future beholds:

it's terrifying, a bewildered surprise//

I write poems on my skin

in a foreign language

of slits, bruises and cuts.

They are the usual stories-

the ones you will

find in almost every book-

love, loss ,grief.

I hide my sins under 

complex metaphors and 

jokes about killing myself.

Red daisies bloom in me,

rooted in the cracks of my body :

a garden out of the

devil's dizzy spell...

I roam like a sleepwalker,

offering my broken hand

for a drowning puppy.

I dance to the ballad of tears, 

cheerful as an 

abandoned flower in graveyard.

Then

three seconds away from fainting ,

my blotchy paintings disappear..

My melancholy turns alarming,

 I  stand two hundred feets away

from black angel.

I hate to hang up,

to drown,

to cut my wrist again 

into two uneven parts,

to jump and break my neck,

and to swallow a hundred pills at once.

I can't take a chance 

once more, 

it's a curse:

to get saved by an accident..

A half baked hope

still lingers in me.



Oh lord! is this world 

really mine or did you

made a mistake 

in my case, 

again?

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