Shadows of the fallen railings on my immovable hands.
Everything is motionless, every god-damned humans behave like they have something going on here…
But the freedom of nothingness is sweet…the forgotten swing set on the old oak tree is full of prosperity.
The blackness gets thicker by the centre of this life and the skin gets wet in the fading Urdu verses.
This pen, these papers, these colors, these scratches…
all of these don’t make sense anymore…
I have realized you don’t die in art…you live in it and you die by the fire of controlled blast one day.
As I walk by the clear roads of this city at night and I see whores getting so close to my soul…
I know somewhere, someone has started his journey towards the truth and the madness…
Don’t like poetry, don’t be a poet.
Forget affairs and be suicidal amidst the tall green trees of distant lands.

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Photograph: Google.