If I can tell

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

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