I did the autopsy of my poems,
It was crippled ,
Grief didn't treat them well.
It's lastwords was breathless,
Due to the utmost pressure of my rage.
Someof it were bleeding yet,
Perhaps the agony in them wasn't ready to leave them yet.
Few of them were shattered ,
Maybe my inner screams were too unbearable for them.
The voice echoed in me was the only thing that kept them alive.
Since I burnt it in my dreams ,
Guess I'd never birth my emotions into poems.
YOU ARE READING
Gravestones of survival.
Poetry~People often misunderstand my gravestones of survivals into piece of art.~ Random pieces of poetry.
