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There are a few things I’d like to say to my readers before you read this poem.

I have somehow always associated the colour Magenta with disgust, harassment, torture and alike. Through no poem of mine have I ever tried depict any of these things. But here it goes.

Secondly, some day probably I shall bring to the world the actual reason behind writing this poem but as of now, I don’t have enough courage to do so. Just know, that I am in dire need to bravery right now and your encouragement to go through whatever wrong is happening would really really help me.



Wishing I could blow a horn

Wishing I could even blow a whistle

Yet the only sound that welcomes my ears,

Are my own whimpers while getting thrashed to the ground.

Bright days bring brighter evenings

And evenings bring in the dreadful nights,

And I stand quivering in the cold damp darkness,

Clutching to the last piece of clothing left.

How insatiable your hunger is,

How low-priced you think of me,

How often you must think,

What you call pleasure

Is what to me tormented disgust.

Had I not burnt you down to ashes

Had I not danced with the joy of victory

Had I not requested the Devil

Not to grant you,

Even a place in hell,

Had I not shown you

The exact torture you’ve given me

Had my hands been free of these chains?

Who will hear my cries for help

When your monstrous laughter floods the air?

I know someday

These crocodiles will drag me down

To the bottom of the pool,

Some survive this incident,

While camouflaging themselves with mud

They hide their terror so well.

Even though now I prefer drowning with the crocs,

I fear this life will rather engulf me in mud.

I only know for now

That you make me feel so dirty

But my fear makes me feel dirtier.

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These corridors brim with fright. Won’t I release it into light? Or might I allow shadow to plunge it into everlasting night? I wander throughout these halls, what is it I’ve lost and what is it I might find?


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There’s this silence in my soul.

Calming, like still water.

I never experienced this peace before.

& I can’t believe your not here to experience this with me.

Or maybe this is because you’re not here.

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I hardly remember the details, just that we kept on merging into one another, I was you, you were me.

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“I have never thought of writing for reputation and honor. What I have in my heart must come out; that is the reason why I compose” - Ludwig van Beethoven.

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It’s sweet, but not innocent. A slow corrosion settles into a simmering stew. Steeping the heart, boiling it in passion, caressing the fires that once burned, arises a sunrise. A glow of starlit rays on the skin, like waterfalls of blooming cosmos. Death becomes me, it is into the shadow I see, for if not here I shall forever fumble to grip black holes.

Shadow work on me.// A summary.


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