From the centre of a vibrant city in America to the edge of a tranquil village in Asia. There are
myriad number of lost poets whose poetry begins as a tragic heartbreak, twisted fate and a desire to inscribe.
I miss his generous angle the one he hides from the drastic world.
He is often seen in an alley holding handful of raw cigarette. Smoking like his life depends on it. Probably it does, we all need a reason to breathe let it be a right or wrong. wait, is there even a thing called right or the wrong? Nothing is entirely right or truly wrong. It's just how you behold and accept things. A bottle of whisky, every time he sips he is freed from all the despair. An illegal fight with an acquaintance, friends as well as strangers. It's not a choice yet sometimes the rage we hold is bigger than the grief we endure. He writes about the darkest side of the truth to gloomiest sides of humanity. Yet his grey poetry sustains an immense metaphor which soothes readers, souls, just like a tight hug of the intense verses. He is sequestered for a reason. A modest sense can never comprehend the agony of a pierced vision. He ain't ignorant just little scared of phony concern and superfluous advice.
He is lost yet he is seeking. A cliff of truce to jump from his past and never come back.
His weak heart requires a tiny drop of injection filled with love and affection.
// He doesn't write just for living,
He writes for breathing too //