Its like I'm trapped in a room with infinite darkness, with no walls around me.
It's like I'm wrapped up in a shroud of insecurity and handcuffs made of vulnerability.
It's like I'm fed up now, with everyone, everything, but mostly fed up with myself.
It's like I'm tired of giving advices and telling them that 'it will be alright.' I'm tired of expressing my words of wisdom.
It's like my voice is numb, my eyes are screaming to be closed and my body is aching to go lifeless.
But my heart won't let me do that, I know.
Cause there's still a vestige of hope left inside it. A hope which is thumping against my rib bones and trying to be the only voice for me.
The only voice for me.
YOU ARE READING
The Untold Stories.
Historia Corta// The Untold Stories. \\ " We're about the books we read, and the poems we love." - Kritika Banerjee. A collection of paragraphs, nanotales, poetry and thoughts from my journey. Highest Rank - #78 in short stories on 29/6/17 ...
