• aditii_ 19w

    it's getting hard for me to write these days.


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    Sometimes I feel like a spring, to whom no one wants to stay.

    that withered house,
    where cherry blossom
    poetries still bloom,
    I stay there;

    a spring breeze
    brushes all the pain away,
    leaving the residue of incoming summer;

    when I pick-up the call,
    other side boiling frustration pours on me,
    a random verse I scribble everyday,
    the fragrance of it,
    buries in choatic crowd glowing infront of my eyes;

    April days, kissing baby blooms,
    I stand there with a smile,
    on which other's frown;
    Am I a piece of curse,
    whom only spring pamper,
    and monsoon will lets bloom?

    a spring comes and goes,
    vibrates love on my upset soul,
    but still wherever I go,
    I am considered to be a spring,
    whom no one wants to love.