Writing is my ticket to escape from this reality; I write stories an poems, uncomfortable and true they are; I hope, though it is ironic, that you enjoy!
“It’s been a month since the probe started. Your department has failed to nail the murderer. Why the delay?” “Have you got any lead in the case?” “Does the previous murder that happened last month have
Truth is very bitter to know we are all parasites, is even bitter; You read it or not, I will write until the end of dawn, for the forsaken life is mine, to have the demons with me to dine. Here you will
Why is everything dark in here? Why cannot I see those birds, chirping in the green trees, laughing and mocking me. Confused and wearied, I look around; to search To search me, a lost worthless junkie
