Clueless black itch
pendulum songs.
Scrapping against the mud-
the noises of ‘what if’..
and so much more.

The mind of a poet is that of a delirious day dreamer- wobbly feet and scrapped tongue.

My spleen is swollen- it does not weep further
but my hand does- they produce movements,
curvature( black & blue)

We poet are fearless rock.
We swim through mountains and remain hurt always.
We are imaginary songs- figurative drawings.

Published by

my valiant soul

A dreamer and a believer for the upliftment of women rights. A published poet, author, writer. Believes in dancing and cooking amazing food for hungry souls at times. Loves to write and write till the moon is satisfied. My writings can be found at Visual Verse, Indian Periodical, Sick Lit mag, Duane's Poetree, Thistle magazine, among various others. Curator of Olive Skins.

8 thoughts on “Sonograms.”

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