Naaz-o-Andaz se kehte hain k jeena hoga Zeher dete hain to kehte hain ki pina hoga Jab me pita hu to kehte hai k marta bhi nahi Jab me marta hu to kehta hain k jeena hoga... sam poetess ©SAMREEN FATIMA life and dead #seashore

life and dead #seashore

Naaz-o-Andaz se kehte hain k jeena hoga
Zeher dete hain to kehte hain ki pina hoga
Jab me pita hu to kehte hai k marta bhi nahi
Jab me marta hu to kehta hain k jeena hoga...
sam poetess

©SAMREEN FATIMA life and dead

#seashore

Anamika Singh

I cherished dead flower's as they live between the pages of books.I beleive a fresh flower is love for its beauty but the dead one is beyond beauty,A fresh flower is smelled for it scent but dead one for memories and fresh flower give the feel of softness but the dead one give feel of past.A fresh flower live for "a day" but dead one "forever" ©Anamika Singh dead and fresh flowers

dead and fresh flowers

I cherished dead flower's as they live
between the pages of books.I beleive
a fresh flower is love for its beauty but
the dead one is beyond beauty,A fresh
flower is smelled for it scent but dead one
for memories and fresh flower give the
feel of softness but the dead one give
feel of past.A fresh flower live for "a day"
but dead one "forever"

©Anamika Singh dead and fresh flowers

Manidipa Debnath

dead rose and me

person

White {BIRTHDAY} VS AGE जन्मदिन जन्म से लेकर हर जन्मदिन पर उम्र घटते जाता है_ लेकिन कहने को तो उम्र बढ़ते जाता है ©person BORN AND AGE INCREASE AND DEAD

BORN AND AGE INCREASE AND DEAD

$White {BIRTHDAY} VS AGE जन्मदिन जन्म से लेकर हर जन्मदिन पर उम्र घटते जाता है_ लेकिन कहने को तो उम्र बढ़ते जाता है ©person BORN AND AGE INCREASE AND DEAD$

Nitin Bandhe

Dead Trigger part 10 iOS Android APK Android

Bharath Nandibhatla

Pillows, all fluffy and spongy. To absorb all those tears we shed every night, after living a nightmare. She shed tears today too, those that drip down her cheeks after living a sweet dream, inside out. And her pillow, glistened, with her tears on it, like pearls. Tears from a corner of her eyes, love from the core of her soul, a strand of hair over her moist cheeks that she brushed away with tender fingers, half of her face buried into her fluffy pillow as she talked to me, sleeping on her bed, sideways. There, in that moment, Carpe Diem. She seized the moment. Time ceased. I write poetry all night. And she was poetry today. The happy tears, her ink. The pillow, her quill. Me, her muse. And now, I write poetry about a breathing poem. Amused over a musing half buried in a pillow. Half buried in a pillow. Half buried in love.

Half buried in a pillow. Half buried in love.