I unpack my bags
Clean my dishes, wash my clothes
And write poetry
Pedantic as me,
Not fantastic as you
One by one you left You, then you Now, on this cold early hour Of the morning memories I translate everything you were Into everything you meant I should not live in the past, they say I should move on, they say...
“Show me your house,” said she As soon as we opened the door Now, on the eighth day The house is empty Mute, quiet, refusing to Wave goodbye It was my house She arrived at But in her departure, She left our...
Here I am thinking, You were nicer to me When you were pregnant Now all you do is Give me a frown, An abrupt look away So I urge you, Become pregnant again, And walk in through the hallway On a bright sunny morning So...
Let me begin by making you a woman again And tell you who you actually are Beneath the snow of indifference that piled up on you And made you stop feeling womanly. When you speak on the phone, Your voice goes inside me...
Thursday, April 30, 2015, 6:37pm What makes it possible that Dickens can write about city’s vagabond children and it infuses us with emotion, that Trollope can write about societies in church, novelizing them, and...
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Copyright © Raj Karamchedu.