An orchid of poems

Under my grown nails resides (occasionally)

neither gunk nor whiteness but bloody relief-

which springs every time I pierce my knife-like nails into my satin skin-

To deviate my focus from the recurring thoughts obscene.

Now, don’t presume and label me as overly-lecherous;

Comprehend me from my frame of reference: –

Wetness adds to the weight-

Be it-

clothes (drenched by the unexpected rain),

eyes (drenched by the unexpected sorrows), or,

terra firma (drenched by the unexpected flood).

Tell me, how could have wetness be prevented?

My thoughts are no less than wetness!

Clouds(I) can’t dictate the fate of hanging fire(thoughts)

but rain(god) inside the heart of clouds.

Who doesn’t want to cultivate graciousness in their mind?

Who doesn’t want to beautify the corridors and rooms of their mind?

So, I pierce my knife-like nails into my satin skin

to deviate my focus from recurring thoughts obscene.