My Poems are Not for Sale
My Poems are Not for Sale


They'll come when words die in the throat.
Or when the coppery dusk comes to peek inside my window.
It comes when a cryptic emotion purges the brain.
Or when an ave chirp somewhere in the greenery.
It comes with the death of a season in a jiffy.
Or when someone annoys your life to hell.
But poetry comes mostly when I miss you nearby.
Choking my thoughts...
Flooding the abyss of my eyes...
And I spit it with blood and longing...
My poems smell like you.
Making me scribble more and more to feel you.
Usually, they don't make any sense except for me.
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Because I hoist them on my memories with you.
My poems flutter in the air like your curly hair...
Hooting like the owl on a night bough...
Usually, they look haphazard and world weary.
Because I write them in my ink of pessimism.
My poems take your shape often.
Flexible, tall and broad and demigod-like handsome.
Usually, people look at them in curiosity and awe.
Because it has your shape and innocent smile.
My poems are not for sale.
They are not edible.
They are just the light rays I spit.
Because they choke me from within when I miss you.