I aspired to be a journalist when I was hardly 14 years
old...now at 23 I understand that there is nothing called
Journalism...there is idealism and reality. The next
aspiration borders on fiction.
There are eight months before I bid goodbye To just the second decade of my life Yet, I feel infinitely old Weighed down by an invisible hand on my heart I struggle to sense authenticity in Anythin…...
Years after we became strangers I am riddled with thoughts Of a melded past Of the reams of memories So unsatisfying Of those lost moments Just out of grasp Tell me,&n…...
My very own miracle You came in and I realised My doors weren’t closed; You took root in my insides When I believed my soil was barren You grew unnoticed until I could No longer ignore your p…...
Everyday I come home I forget your absence I open the door To an empty shell Which reminds me of Your presence There are no hugs And deep sighs The couch is cold Without you on it Smiling your Come…...