“Anything but Gray” – Nayana Nair

Once I could write of rains
and the pain they bring.
Today I am afraid of the umbrellas, of shelters,
of the short-lived moments
of what I used to call happiness,
of the ill-planned escapes from cells
filled with my own darkness and filth.

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How have I grown into this person
who recognizes only one face,
that is my own.
Can my selfishness be something
that I can blame someone else for?
Is this also some form of loneliness?

8 Comments

  1. Hi, Nayana. When it comes to writing– don’t worry about “good enough.” Whatever your thoughts– whatever comes from your heart at that moment– is more than “good enough.” Peace.

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