By Nishtha Mishra
I am unable to write yet again,
Poetries don’t make any sense,
They don’t rhyme in my brain,
I’m unable to write yet again.
It happens when I feel dead inside,
I realised I find it hard to write,
Being sad and being dead,
Are too different to suffice.
I need to have a breathing soul,
I need to have a working mind.
I feel numb and this nothingly silence
Is being chaotic inside my spine.
It’s hard to write with an aching soul,
It’s hard to write with a dead heart.
It’s hard to make sense of things,
Words that I put together are falling apart.
To make things work I talk to you,
To makes things work I stop and look through.
My heart long so empty, gets to breathe,
Lungs start to inflate, my soul feels complete.
To have a friend like thee,
To be the target of your genuinity.
I feel enchanted and I feel mould.
It warms my heart that was out cold,
I can’t write until it’s for you,
I can’t feel alive until you guide me through,
Things make no sense and when they do,
Words fall apart until I look for you.
By Nishtha Mishra
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