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When one side your thinking dies a slow death, th

When one side your thinking dies a slow death, the other side it grows unknown places to you. (Read caption) Your art is a destruction. You find happiness in your own destruction. You sail through the ocean of drops to find yourself be the one but you just drown yourself on in. You are a one fucking coward, who never feels good about himself who keeps degrading himself always the first one opening the back doors to let enter the night on the couch where you have struggling hard to write a piece to be performed. The crowd gonna cheer up. Drunk Bukoswi would be complimenting you for what the world you created with your art in which you have imprisoned yourself. You say you don't deserve this, it's too much because all you have been doing all your life is running and escaping from yourself. Your past is a therapy session you give yourself every midnight to reach a conclusion letting you go nowhere, out of nowhere. You say that's the only thing which is keeping me alive, no it's not but it's the only thing making sense in the middle of lost and dead poetries. You keep shrouding your memories in the grave of your living art in which you feel, dead yet alive. There were days when you feel so low that slitting yourself seems the best option for the time to pass and let embrace the night for your dying art, when you sit with silent on the other side of your bed and the void empties you a little more than before. You fill the void with your underrated crisis, which the world never heard of. The night passes by and comes the morning, you seek for redemption but all your hopes dies in vain and the next moment you see yourself is, you are sitting with your therapist asking, how are you? You seemed null and responds,
When one side your thinking dies a slow death, the other side it grows unknown places to you. (Read caption) Your art is a destruction. You find happiness in your own destruction. You sail through the ocean of drops to find yourself be the one but you just drown yourself on in. You are a one fucking coward, who never feels good about himself who keeps degrading himself always the first one opening the back doors to let enter the night on the couch where you have struggling hard to write a piece to be performed. The crowd gonna cheer up. Drunk Bukoswi would be complimenting you for what the world you created with your art in which you have imprisoned yourself. You say you don't deserve this, it's too much because all you have been doing all your life is running and escaping from yourself. Your past is a therapy session you give yourself every midnight to reach a conclusion letting you go nowhere, out of nowhere. You say that's the only thing which is keeping me alive, no it's not but it's the only thing making sense in the middle of lost and dead poetries. You keep shrouding your memories in the grave of your living art in which you feel, dead yet alive. There were days when you feel so low that slitting yourself seems the best option for the time to pass and let embrace the night for your dying art, when you sit with silent on the other side of your bed and the void empties you a little more than before. You fill the void with your underrated crisis, which the world never heard of. The night passes by and comes the morning, you seek for redemption but all your hopes dies in vain and the next moment you see yourself is, you are sitting with your therapist asking, how are you? You seemed null and responds,
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Meera Ali

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