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swords are needles

Swords Are Needles

Why draw a sword, When you know That it only kills? Nothing good has ever come From a needle that only knows how to cut, And how to taste blood. You are calling out destruction When you know How to use a weapon; Its knowledge

dawn of the living poem

Dawn of the Living

Waking up in your time, I am the night! I see what calls you – A light from the sky, And you walk out like moths To a brimming sunshine; All that glare hides promises Of a bright future That you could make In your

written poetry slow motion photo


Did you know? You were born in kisses, Moulded with slurps Of my sloppy lips, You didn’t know what it was then Or what together meant. You just take love for granted, Just as you take breathing now. Your birth wasn’t a mistake, But a

The Crying Child with Father

The Crying Child

What ails you, child? Why cry you wild? The journey is yet to begin; The world is crook and pain And outright insane; It hides in its ways, Mysterious days, Hurt, that has yet to find a name. It will a play a game That’s

fallen poetry by scottshak

The Fallen

People fall in, They fall out, And yet they never learn That falling in Is supposed to give butterflies, While falling out, ashes. And that’s all there is to it – A series of falling in and out, Of broken hearts and reconciliations, Of tamed

everyone else image people in boxes

Everyone Else

My parents named me a very common name. You google it and thousands of Prashant Singh show up. They had unknowingly registered me to their very idea of normalcy. Maybe they secretly wished me to be like everyone else. But I am not everyone else.

nomad poem by scottshak

The Nomad

Sandwiched between places, I am a place Without a ground To call my own. I go here, I go there, Yet I am nowhere For a while; My while eats them alive. They talk in whispers, How my presence Bothers their heartless bodies. You wanted

an unmanned boat in the sea

The Unmanned Boat

Sea to the left, See to my right To find another hopeless sight, Down below death drowns, I might not ever make it out, And yet I try to find my wade, Clueless about a certain fate, Must be a land somewhere That my purblind

waiting hands image for poverty

Waiting Hands

Reading so much hope In so much less, You are warriors of dark Fighting for light. I wish you weren’t A mere statue of pity For comments pithy, Forgotten like people often Forget things unimportant. I have never known, I might have known; But the