Mornings of blue


Long stares
At the coffee mug
From a distance
How it holds itself
On the desk
Alongside the poetry books
With crumbled edges
And faint covers
Doing what it’s
Meant to do
With ease.
A whirlwind
Coming from within,
Or just another form
Of it’s being,
As if it’s trying
To escape
Towards the larger void.
A thin white string
Of aroma
To the air,
In an effort
To lose its made-up self
To calm itself down
And to come to a stage
Of it’s own
And be
What it’s meant to be.
After all
What’s more substantial
Than being
And leave a stain
On the desk,
As if it knows
All the rules of the universe.




She always loved,
The loud scars, imperfections,
In people, in herself,
Thought it ties the tales.
Stronger forever.

Started to immerse,
Her unversed heart,
So in the dark, she,
filled it with evil,
Left no place,
For obscure affairs.

She knew,
as she stared,
Across the black void.
The wrong in her,
and others in her world.
Vague, indifferent.

A thought,
In disguise,
Tiptoed, into her
ever-reigning psyche.
Rustled to lose control.