Each day is my writing pad,I carve letters through my routine,Some days sound the sameBut every page remains different.Some days don’t speak at all,While some days sing a song,Some end up getting torn,When I trundle on their edgesTo test at what point do I fallOut
Sometimes I am scared of what I might become. What if I forget my modus operandi. Can an artist forget his trait? I started off to be a writer, now an array of vocations caper about on my dashboard. The inclination towards direction affects my
I am seething, Flaming in this impossible heat, Thinking what did I do to deserve this, What loathsome act did I commit To seal such a painful fate? Or was it just a matter of choice That plucked out known faces, Impelled me towards cold
It is in these moments I feel kind of empty, when I sit with my laptop and feed my fingers the stiff of the keys, when I have nothing to do, and no clue what to type. There is nothing going on. But I still
Sometimes I think every failure we encounter is nature’s way of warning us, its way of adjusting us, putting us on the scanner once again till we find a better path. Maybe where we were headed in the first place wasn’t supposed to be our