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Guess which city is the poem about.
(Poem in the caption)

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We were two dew drops
Sliding closer
On a gossamer thread
Hanging between two trees
In the less walked parts
Of the Park
Wishing for the dawn
To never crack 
The sky, to never lick off
The stars with its
Pale yellow tongue.

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You call yourself
A writer,
Yet you fail to express your
Feelings for that
Special person, in person.
Are you really a writer?
Or are you
Just another human being
Scared of the outcomes,
Who thinks he is a writer?
As the former can create their
Own world,
Unafraid of the risks and chaos,
Can make the best lovers.
And then there is you.
Close your eyes
And ask yourself
“Am I really a writer?”

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I dream
of you,
a dream
for me.
So,
are you a dream?
or
are you a dream
created by my dreams
to escape from
the reality?
What if you are the reality
i am running away from?
This thought scares me.

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A HYMN FOR THE BAD DAYS

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PUSH PUSH PUSH!

Till how can I?
Till how far you can?
Can you stretch more?
Can you think hard?
Can you write more?
Can you go beyond expectations?
Push push push!
Harder you do, harder you climb up!
Don't they say that everytime?
but how hard are they pushing themselves,
to not push their conviction on whom they think are the pawns?

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I came across a
folded paper
containing a highly
pretentious
poem. About a muse,
smoking Marlboro
cigarettes.

//please read in caption//

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Love another day, just one more time.
Till you can’t see the creases 
That make up the distance between you both,

Till roses don’t stop smelling of
Blood and heartbreak,

Till the morning sun feels warm on your skin
But doesn’t burn it,

Till there’s fire and smoke all around
But a carpet of orchids in bloom is all you see.

Love another day, and another, and another...
Till it bleeds you dry and you’re left gasping for breath,

Till it spins you around, mocks you and,
Threatens to swallow you whole.

Till you’re tired, disenchanted, emptied…
But alive to start again.

Love another day, 
But remember to pick another fool.

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You say you're ready to accept
her pain,
But couldn't stand her thorns,
You say you love her petals
but couldn't bear to see them fall at winter.

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