I write a poem
and burn it.
what escapes of it
is my soul.
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look at my blood flowers, because I write with a serene sharp blade that soothes. as much as cuts into the deepest parts of my soul
Me
- Basit
- Son, Mallu, Expeditionist, Whimsical Blogger, Pseudo Poet, Haiku thirst, Literaly anti-literal, Foodie, Coffee & PinkFloyd addict. floating bewilderedly through space-time continuum !
Popular Posts
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This is a routine lament. Colors are dear, these days. Yellow flowers wilt into brown silence; voices fade, there is nothing more to be said...
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frosty morning / flock of starlings / twisting in the wind.
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We live between the spaces of promises, in broken tea cups and shattered mornings. then new vows soak up spilled words until we fall again.
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Even dead fallen leaves go a long way with the wind before getting crushed.
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mad poetry,willful gravity and animal magnetism, bone-caging desire. I seek every why, while open mouthing the rain and the dead light of st...
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* To fall in love. * To laugh until it hurts your stomach. * To find mails by the thousands when you return from a vacation. * To go for a v...
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my mind, poached its yolk spilling out into a void; past mirrored hallways, grey reflections of words are chained to my tongue
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Paintbrush in water fascinates me sometimes more than colors as it's the state where imagination actually decides the destiny of the can...
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wrapping my whispers around your silence.
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Twisted tears // run jaggedly // down my face // crooking their way // into my heart//
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