Dear End,
Let's begin. How I was born and my poetry became pragmatic, but my metaphors always pleaded for visions of garden, where flowers smelled of illusions and I touched their fragrance with my lips, which spoke for imaginations and I always dreamt of being, an inception.
I won't tell you, how incomplete I leave my poems, only to come back to it, which reminds me of home, where a part of me, lived once. A happy soul I was, but the evil fairies took my tooth, and I starved for smile, which made me more hungry and everyday, my poetry became a poem. I searched for my existence in you, but death barged itself, elbowing the self committed love, I had for my scabulous heart, where backspacing errors, regrets, guilts, melancholy found shelter.
Have you ever wondered why tears are transperant? How your heart knows it's extreme end that it's hurt, and brimmed up emotions flow flawlessly?
Unaware of the outcome, the rugged pain, lifts up it's heaviness and the gravity leaves you for a moment, like an unskilled labour, whose mother gave him a piece of cardboard telling, nail it up whenever you feel angry, it will relieve you. Later, he chose to become a carpenter, and told everyone that he is an artist and makes art from his mental illness, and people pay for it.
