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By Sagarika Das

Sometimes I tore pieces of poetry,

From every part of my body,

Mould in with ink of my pen,

And at night when everyone dreams,

I sit with the same ink,

Stare into the blues,

Into the blacks,

And many different shades.

Sometimes this ink draws your face,

Sometimes they write off your memories,

Several times they speak of your eyes,

And other times, they write me the stories,

But now I find these pages blank,

I can read no longer,

And nothing's the same,

I can barely speak words in the real world,

And nor do I see your gaze,

Only in my notebook, I have you,

Laughing, crying, stargazing, vulnerable,

And of course all mine,

But these pages now are bleeding red,

Every piece of poetry is bleeding red,

I can read no longer,

I speak no longer,

Is it a blessing?

Or is it a curse?

You're walking away,

And no longer does it matter,

But I'm in love with this bleeding canvas,

It's crimson with new flowers,

Flaunting my skin,

Shaping my thoughts,

Stars are guiding me home,

I'm liking this crimson kingdom,

Moulding the red with my ink,

When everyone dreams,

From every part of my body,

I'm tearing pieces of poetry.

By Sagarika Das

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