literature poetry writing


I ain’t the colour of my skin,
nor can be defined by my committed sin.
I’m the colour of the grass and the sky
mixed with unnatural sufferings.
I’m shimmery, black and white,
butterfly ranting about her wings which takes her to the sky.
I’m the imperfect epitome,
and all the flame which can keep you warm
with compassion and tenderness.

I can’t be his or hers, or someone you can pack in love
I’m a bird who never wished for a canopy,
the one who wanted to be free,
till all her presence.
-Riya Shah

By Ray


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