Here I am again, in the dead of night, scribbling away words.
Hoping they heal the hurt.
Believing in promises more hollow than the bones of a dead bird.
I keep making excuses.
I keep going back.
Is it you? Or is it something I lack.
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YOU ARE READING
Window pain
PoetryThis book is but a humble attempt at encapsulating life and all its flavours. It is an ode to the sad days and melancholy nights. For grief that stays alive even after years have passed. Musings of longings and dreams of escape. And a protest agai...
