Home, a concept:
My tiny room, with cream tinted walls, my old school, between the pages of a book/home, a place.
Dead leaves and dried flowers, my father's oh so strong ittar, old books/home, a smell.
The constant humming of the fan, the traffic outside, glassware breaking every once in a while/home, a sound.
The everlasting tightness in my chest, the emptiness in my heart, waves of nostalgia crashing into me, weighing me down/ home, a feeling.
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Veiled_Intellect I wouldn't be doing this if it weren't for you ❤️🦋
YOU ARE READING
Melanin And Ink
Poetry"Another lover hits the universe. The circle is broken. But with death comes rebirth. And like all lovers and sad people, I am a poet." To people who've gone through so much shit and are still breathing, surviving, fighting, living life. This one's...
