I’m brimming with sad incomplete love poems. I’m full of words I’d arrange to express how dried up my soul feels. But, even after hours of writing and crossing and writing and then crossing again and then tearing pages and then giving up, no matter how much I try, I’m no longer a writer, I believe. They’ll say I lack passion. Even I thought so. But, maybe, it’s not the passion I need. Maybe, I just need you. You robbed me of the last intangible memory of you, you stole the writer in me. You made me a writer but didn’t leave me a writer. You fell in love with a writer, but you never broke up with a writer.
-Nupur Dua
YOU ARE READING
Devoted to the demons inside
PoesiaMy demons were scraping the hell out of me, haunting my skull like never before. They didn't permit me to live, they screamed even more when I wanted to die. Sadness was all over me, adorning my heart's scars painfully. And very soon, darkness would...
