“I hope my poem touches your soul and tickles your feet. As it is a river, river of my molten heartbeats.”

She’s never silent, you can always listen her soul speaking the tongue of poetry.

She is handpicked by nature to bleed. Look, how she makes pain bow down and plead.

I wanted peace, they gave me silence.

Once the sky dreamt of kissing the earth and everyone called it horizon.

I hope this pain never eases and these wounds never heal. That’s how you keep lingering in scars, underneath my skin.

Night is a song, moon and sad people can sing along.

Worship her for the way she rolls her sleeves up and hums the silence of healing.

Poetry is an eulogy, sung for hope and love.

Rest your head on his shoulder more often. Earth blushes when a snowflake gently dozes off on it.

A poet is the most beautiful poem, never read out loud by anyone.

When god created woman, he was introspecting himself after falling in love.

Art is the sound of a human dying to be an immortal artist.

Love to the fullest. Either you’ll live for eternity or die as a poet.

She was hidden, drenched in darkness. He held her hand and called her luna.

I started painting the touch of your voice, and ended up writing a love song.

And then writer in you is so homesick of pain, that you plead your wounds to bleed and ache.