The days I pull from a stump are the hardest.
The days where I cry and yet heed on are the hardest.
The days when our soul is dry, and yet we find an ounce of dew to pour on love,
are the hardest.
My furry has taken unique shapes, cultivated further with different names.
Sometime ago, what I knew was rage is now passion
But the kindest challenge is burning holes in me.
And living life on my terms is harder than I thought.
I'm honored for a soul that does not falter,
Its desire stands immortal.
Wondering, if I can make that furry proud,
there are no takers of this love.
There are no churches or rivers to wash away the sins,
bearing the soul out may salvage us a bit
But burning in anguish is certainly guaranteed.
Sinha: Feb'2, 21
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