Red eyes, clogged vessels, tanned cells and septum holes, She came up to me with an ashtray, and a bunch of tobacco rolls,I mean, how can I fill the gap that you've created?? How could I switch the clock back to the past, for the time I have wasted? I have gone a sedate now; the heart has stopped pumping zeal into my head,And for the hole in my heart, which is so dead now, which has run out of life now,I carry the loads of moments that you've endowed.

Until I knew that it was you inside me, who has so much to say, I hesitated writing.

Chimerical words, the words were written,Some are wasted; some are still on the page,Tattered words, the words were written,Some are young, some are aged,Gloomy words, the words were written,Some are unspoken, some are told,Words were hurt, though they can heal,Words are breathless, though can feel,Words won hearts, words shattered hearts,Words lost battles, words won wars,Wars within, words had scars.

His pen spoke more to her than he ever did”.In the war of words, some are unwritten and some are unspoken.

How might I get over this? How would I be able to overlook the way he used to be with me? How could I overlook that his fingers touched my indiscernible soul before it twisted my nipples? How might I overlook his essence that still is in my garments? Despite everything, I still hear you saying that you love me. Though I know you don't.

All she captures is a moment and what she calls it is a memory,Sometimes, it is assumptions that we use; all we need is a theory,Because you don’t know what is there in the future,And all you need is a vision to make a perfect picture.I feel that I have known you for a century,And whatever she calls is a memory.

After all these years, all I know is, I need not to do anything as a part of remorse.All I need is to write.Because,'Poetry forgives.

In the shadows, we all are the same. Dark, inconsistent and indifferent. And if someone loves you dark, he loves all of you. Because when it is dark, the shadow is within you. It is the light that differentiates us with an identity. It is the light that marks our shadows.Light never guarantees love.

In the room full of individuals for whom I hold feelings of resentment about, Who might be the first I would converse with, when I am about to bite the dust?