If it was a paper from my diary,
I could tear it like the sky tears in me.
If it was the ink of my pen,
I could change the colour.
If it was a damaged vase,
I could design it with small grass.
If it was my room ceiling,
I could observe it without being scared.
If it was a forest of flowers,
I could make it a home.
If it was my mysterious poem,
the people would read me but feel nothing.
But it was my old tired soul for this world,
abundantly I created a special home in the wrong place.
Romantic Poetry By Humaira Tabassum
