You write poems with your fingertips
And I keep listening to the songs written on my skin
By some distant dream, similar words
But the verses never meet...

She awaits the rain like a writer embraces metaphors,
A drizzle isn't for the child who dances in the storm.
Of rain that washes away the petrichor it brings,
A downpour of a hail of bullets, and she calls it spring.

I've heard you say so many a time
That I know just the right words to say, just the right lines to rhyme...

Today it's been 7 years since we last met
I have learnt to say just the wrong words, just the lines you hate....

There were two and only two messages that could have been comprehended by what he said.

But neither of them was soothing; neither of them was a lie.

You realize you've forgiven people, your past and yourself when you don't speak bad about them anymore, even if you're encouraged to do so, even if you remember you were once brutally broken because of them...

you just move on, let go, let them be and let yourself be...

What if you are just destined to get hurt, to be helplessly stuck in a point of time you no longer want to be?

Maybe life is all about trying to get up while you fall a little bit deeper in the pits of hell, each time you try not to...