I thought...
The length of an entire day...
Thoughts,there were a lot of them,yet
My pages,a bloodless white...
I had missed the tide...
A few cigarette ends,and
Crumpled pages,countless...
They were all,of
My untold poetry...
I couldn't write a scribble.....
The length of an entire day...
Thoughts,there were a lot of them,yet
My pages,a bloodless white...
I had missed the tide...
A few cigarette ends,and
Crumpled pages,countless...
They were all,of
My untold poetry...
I couldn't write a scribble.....
some stories are always told to oneself..and they are supposed to form the basis of 'stories' to be told..
ReplyDelete