While reading all best poems, when I remembered that I am a good poetess too
The pages of the open books; or perhaps the ones I opened once long ago into the dilapidated time have been kept staring at me ever since I promised them - "I will build interest in you soon:" The books I scribbled ; sadly not as a poet but for a young anonymous aspiration. I left the water ajar which I brought to quench my thirst, perhaps my thirst is as deceitful as me; and why it shouldn't be, because the lactose of the water, cannot stimulate the essence - which the dopamine of good words can. There is scent in air, of yellow sandalwood- may be my words are poor dyers. But still can describe the ethereal essence of the fragrance of its holiness, taking all my mind and my senses dripping into it. A fan droodling over my head, in its kohl I hear the stories it says; and I mispercept as of my mind is creating them all- starting from the dawn to when the night falls. And the pages are still gazing, now not at me but at the roof of a shattered hope; They gossip abou
