By Ananya Mukherjee
Like an unborn child stifling in my womb impatient to see the light of the world, words form inside me.
Like an unborn child stifling in my womb impatient to see the light of the world, words form inside me.
Restless, happy to be severed from any presumptuous umbilical ties, vocal and unashamed to cry out aloud.
Incomplete songs of life; distraught, lest I break the chain of thoughts
Like siblings running home, craving a family refuge in expressions.
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