Ironical than it can ever be.
My words fail me when I try to speak.
But with my mouth zipped and damp eyes,
I lift my sword, my only weapon.
I start to write.
I write what I feel.
The pain, the smiles, the anger and every little detail.
Pleasure and disgust,
They are not forgotten either.
I lift my pen and keep fighting the clutter in my brain seeking clarity in the rhymes and a single tune in the rhythm.
But as ironical as it can be.
My words are pointless, my pieces meaningless and my poems tone deaf.
Written by Alifya Cyclewala.
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