• _breathe__ 111w

    They say I preserve depression so beautifully,
    But how's that even possible?
    Can depression be good really?

    If it's me there, I would have asked
    To come closer, take it around in my arms,
    And kiss it's forehead,
    Just to let it faith that,
    Love isn't a curse yet,
    Love can relief;
    But the fact arrives,
    That blue have surrounded me all around.

    I can't breathe but breathes inhale me,
    Bit by bit, bite a bite,
    For I share a good bond with wind.

    Breezes sit along me under the shade of painbow,
    Sing a melody to me and
    Metaphorize me if I am on the moon,
    Running in a time, that is unknown,
    Unknown to so called human-beings here
    Here on so called living planet- The Earth.

    Then, the air polarize me
    With smiles at outer end and
    Tears at the another one,
    Providing me a strength to hug,
    Hug depression within myself.


    They say, grief can be seen in my eyes,
    Simultaneously commenting :
    " How charming your deep eyes are?"
    Can grief be charming too?
    I'm shocked with the optimism
    People keep within themselves.

    But, grief is sad to me,
    I would hide it in my soul
    And nourish it with the left over
    Personifications in my nerves
    And let it survive happily.

    But the nights took away my pens of blood,
    And now books are gazing me for,
    When I will start reading them again?
    But I won't, unless they recite me the pain,
    When the nib stabs its pages
    And cry without sobbing for they know,

    Pain is the nutrient that keeps me alive,
    That reminds me I do exist.

    And when they sing melancholia to me,
    With their shiver voice initially,
    Running smooth subsequently,
    And genuinely ending leaking their vain out all,
    And then my fingers sketch abstract
    With haemoglobin that feeds grief.

    I AM WALLS,
    WALLS WHERE MEMORIES FADE
    BUT FEELS STAY,
    WHERE WHITE CONTRASTS
    AND BLACK DULLS,
    WHERE SHE YELLS
    BUT LOVES THE MOST,
    I AM WALLS,
    WALLS OF HER ROOM.
    _priya__


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    And when they sing melancholia to me,
    With their shiver voice initially,
    Running smooth subsequently,
    And genuinely ending leaking their vain out all,
    And then my fingers sketch abstract
    With haemoglobin that feeds grief.
    ©_priya__