There is nothing in poetry. All you have to do is to sit down with a paper in hand and bleed.
Bleed till the blood seeps in all your thoughts.
Bleed till your words get the true colour of emotions.
Bleed till you cannot bleed anymore, till the last drop
And the pen has squeezed in ink from your heart
to write out the usual, sluggish black and white words into hot, scarlet scars
that leave an everlasting impressions
Some sweet, some bitter, some sour.
That tell stories of near and far
Of several suns and numerous stars
This and much more bleed out of that paper…..
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