It was in the lines of my hands
Didn't my fate say the same ?
But I never agreed
Against everyone of those
I rebelled
How can something I identified
Myself as
Not supposed to be mine
Something so precious to me
Without which I would've never made through
A form of expression
Somewhere I put my heart out
Not be there in some petty lines
I search within
It's all empty
As if the sea has dried
I fell no spark coming through
Nothing to ignite
Are my skills sleeping?
Do they like to snore?
Or maybe I'm just
Not a poet anymore...
_Narayani
YOU ARE READING
It's pretty even to hate
PoetryWhat is the purest feeling in the world? Hate ...... How doubtless it feels Sheer and pure But have you felt it pretty ? You now will....
