I make fire.
from toe to toe-
Mother- you ask 'Who am I'?
I ask the same-
the inheritance of glory
is perhaps a groaning knock?
I am a walking grief-
a cotton swab dipped into a dangling hymn
an adjective which stands nude-
Mother, what are these things around me?
These objects, people- fungus in pickles-
spit it out, immediately-
spit and spat-
You have an eye of an ocean yet you are all dry,
bearing negations for an absolute face of mine
you replicate me mother, or do i do you?
Is my face not enough?
Is my weakness too shallow?
Mother! Oh glorious victory-
You know all of it.
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.
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