The attic is like my personal blanket protecting me from the seasons of Goodbyes, disappointments, dilemmas and my constantly engulfing hunger.
The dampness in the walls erode the noiseless scars in me like peeling out excessive skin and baring out the ugly tangent I never wished to face, that got wet from my own waterfall when the wait was too much to bear.
The darkness in the room trying to grasp the light scantily tells me that even demons, sometimes, run behind the light when their rage tries to conquer their innocent turmoil.
The scarcely visible space in the attic is an embodiment of all the old memories I kept on stuffing inside, suffocating the good ones along gradually losing their radiating tint and couldn't sprout a new one unless I entered the space and made my way through the clutter.
The most grotesque, greasy and outlandish figures, scrolls, toys, ideas, memories, silences, emotions adoring the attic. How come it is possible to be attached to something that shows the mirror of your unorganised poetry?
PARODY OF BEAUTY The sky scrapped a solemn ceremony of rays which packed my cuticles with the unbidden flow of disguise. There is a mild console in the version of my old poetries which filters my tingling voices of void with the husk of twilight. Where my skin were tiled with beige dust, running apart from the case of discarded emotions and ever widening ductile certainty. It has abruptly postponed the activated dismal and sterile tears. -| skin akin to my saviour from sorrows |-
Fragile peace were hung at the peak of inferior instincts where my right to utter was betrayed keeping on the usual trade of torment. The voices which once screamed for an order to hold my breath from evil, it was suffocated between the ceramics of futile walls which were attacked with web of woebegone. The awe for serene crust were trembling trough of troubles, which were alien to my illegal fears. For the lips which once whirled the balms of ballads, howled for sanguine smile when I needed. -| lips layered my loosen lust |-
When then I reached the apex of despondency, the first descry of heights withered my eerie blue mind which emerged for fear everywhere. Echoes which illuminated the mirage of false fear and fright, which I could still pass on with my eyes open by keeping on my belief upon the cloud. The eye which were a birth of peace and diversity of divine grace, showed me the synthesis of ecstasy. -| eyes akin to elan of ebullience |-
Vagueness grew with the numbers of grief I could smell around my windows which were tangled behind my grills. It corroded my nails with flint scrubs of unwillingness, which thickened my thin body with the dirt of doled feelings. These fickleness were wavering around inside the lost dust which divided itself into the parts of dejection. For I knew about the cavity inside my nails which were ducts filled with ambivalence agony, which promoted the tiny portion of my qualms. My grief could grow up taking over the crown of cackle calamities, instead I’ll cut it giving out the curve of cajole. -| nails akin to network of nourishment |-
I HAVE BEEN PROTECTING MY BEAUTY, FOR IT HAS SHIELDED THE WRITER INSIDE ME.