There is much more pain in my poems than the girl who lives on the other side of my wall. Every night I listen her singing and every morning I read her poems. I speak of identity and she lives in the world of anonymity. I hear her crying her name out loud in her poems which says she is dead yet alive. I wrote about the existence and she shredded her abandoned poems setting them ablaze each time, when reading phoenix. This time I took the pen to soak the blood dripping from her veinless poems but she dumped all the ashes on my way as premature babies and yielded herself to the asylum asking for help but she left her house unlocked and still every night, I hear the cries of newborns. For better reading. There is much more pain in my poems than the girl who lives on the other side of my wall. Every night I listen her singing and every morning I read her poems. I speak of identity
