I spill blood with ink on the paper. There's a voice in my head that speaks to me. Some say it's madness, some say it's overthinking. But I listen to it, and pen it down. People call it poetry.
It was a chilly monsoon morning... I was sitting by the window, with a cup of coffee in my hand, enj... It was a chilly monsoon morning... I was sitting by the window, with a cup of co...