where the writers are

Shubham Bhargav's Writings

  Born to earth; night so cold, ‘twas numb. Memories winged cease to exist, with a pale white fog; I get it all, and I get it half – am still dumb. Free to express, but what? Oh the smog? Here I was; no one saw, the second leaf none admired. World expected, at an age – slight, a brawl ‘cause I wasn’t shy; As the withered leaf sigh, to the grass “I’m fired” I...