It's pathetic really
How much I wish to run away
From my thoughts
But the truth is
I spill them on paper
Way too often
While giving up sleep
Endlessly
I am tired
Of writing about
How screwed everything is
But it's the only thing that consoles me
At any time
Something crosses my mind
I pen it down
The margins of my books are littered with tiny writings.
The purpose of the books become
To witness the little scribbles
And keep them safe
And ease my mind.
All my secrets,
Views of the world,
All my flawed thoughts,
All my feelings.
Can be found,
As little scribbles,
And crossed out lines,
In black ink.
YOU ARE READING
Inside Her Mind.
PoetryThis little bunch of poems that I am writing is 'how' I feel sometimes 'what' I feel sometimes... these are views towards life and relationships with people and all my compressed thoughts expressed.... They reflect me people I know and what they wan...
