When I linger upon the foggy windows.
My gramaphone hums ranjish hi sahi of mehdi hasan.
My lips was only kissed by flavorful smokesticks and not flavoured lips.
Wearing the old sarees that
makes me look old ,
Yet providing solace.
Bookstacks were pested ,
eating the grief I etched on to papers.
People always said they love my poems ,
I always heard it as they loved my grief.
I started to wear grief as an ornament in my heart and words.
I painted the windowpanes into different colors ,
the colors I wanted people to see me in.
I closes the door before they feel comfortable in here.
Sometimes I shut it too hard and loud ,
leading to the ruins of hinges.
It now lets out a creaking voice ,
when I close and open often ,
I assume it to be the ones I broke ,
Physically and mentally.
I pour drops to the hinges ,
from oil bottle ,
That was mixed with grief.
YOU ARE READING
Gravestones of survival.
Poetry~People often misunderstand my gravestones of survivals into piece of art.~ Random pieces of poetry.
