“I want to write happy poems on new years. But grief doesn’t have timelines, and it refuses to let go of me.”

Aren’t all poets born from tragedy?

You are a nameless prayer, my heart begs to be brought again to existence.

I have inherited my fathers rage and my mothers silence. Everyday is a survival. I am a fire burning, just invisible.

Brown daughters are just fragile glass houses always on the verge of shattering.

I believe we all deserve good endings. We were kind people before this world turned us cruel.

They said everything I lost will come back to me. I said -everything I’ve lost is too lost to ever come back to Me.

My love isn’t love. It is devotion. I don’t fall in love, I shatter. I don’t love, I worship.

I’ve been so hurt. Just love me enough that my heart heals and all my scars worship your name.

Even when the blood in my veins is the same as them, every cell in my body is against becoming like them. What a curse it is to hate the very thing that birth you.

Without this sadness I wouldn’t even know who I am.

You seem like such a long ago; but you were supposed to be my forever?

I don’t say I know what love is. But whatever it is, you are its every shade.

All the dreams you planted in my eyes, will someday haunt you alive.

Death I believe has many forms. It is a shapeshifter. But amongst all the forms it has, love is my favorite.

Time heals but only when nourished with love. The only possible cure for heart break is to love again.

You don’t have to try to fix anyone. You just have to love them.

Poetry is about the grief. Politics is about the grievance.

Parting is such sweet sorrow that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow.

Instead of weeping when a tragedy occurs in a songbird’s life, it sings away its grief. I believe we could well follow the pattern of our feathered friends.

Most grievous of all deaths it is to die of hunger.

I loathe a friend whose gratitude grows old, a friend who takes his friend’s prosperity but will not voyage with him in his grief.

Sweet is a grief well ended.

For wherein is life sweet to him who suffers grief?

Waste not fresh tears over old griefs.