She came to me
An unknown
I was quiet in a corner
A broken chandelier
Dimly lit
Upon the floor
But to her I was
A piece of paper
Scrawled upon
With uncertain hand.
She read
And left;
Misunderstood
Afraid.
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Author: TheHumanAnvil
I find poetry as a gentle reminder, a medium to relay and dwell upon all things considerate people find inconsiderate. Poetry as an art is akin to a lamp or a magnifying glass. It trails volumes of meaning behind obscure, vague words. I have been writing for a time now, and intend to do so for the time to come. And hopefully, hopefully, hope that one day, someday, a person stumbling across this veil of words, find it alluring enough to shift aside the curtain and peer, into the eyes of the naked truth which sways with the wind of reason. If you have any thoughts, it would be my pleasure to know them, if you don't then it would be a pleasure to not. Be my guest. This feast of words is for you.
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THE HUMAN ANVIL 
Scrawled upon
With uncertain hand.
Beautiful
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Thank you for the kind compliment 😊
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Beautiful, as always, and heart-wrenching!
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Glad you liked it Aa’eedah…😊
Trying to be a minimalist now. Few broken words to convey everything inbetween.
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Then I cannot put it in words how effortless your writing is, well, so much so, I have to admit that your poetry, and your presence here, is intimidating to me (I mean it in the best possible way)! I find it flawless!
Eh, you can call me Pragya. That’s my name.
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Thank you for the compliments, Pragya. You yourself are a wonderful and inspiring writer. Many times reading your poetry has spurred me on to write poems of my own✌️
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That’s very kind of you. Thank you. 😊
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Very poignantly evoked
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Thank you very much my dear friend. 😊😊
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You are most welcome 🙂
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