Biography of Nithin Pradeep
I am Nithin,16, living in kerala, India.
Well! I am not a born writer.I just love poetry and write down whatever emotion comes into my mind.To be honest, I don't exactly know how to write poems but I find it a medium to express my emotions...
Nithin Pradeep Poems
The Lost Friend
He was lost in the depths of my random thoughts and an unfathomed heart He shall only be a memory; the tryst was unkept and promises in shambles
Confessions Of A Woodcutter
I always stood for profanity In these years passed by, I was harsh The axe was tampered with an unconscious branch here, a rotten flower there
As the universe starts off its day, with new hopes of revival four children, strangers by birth yet, bonded by an unconditional friendship
The Dew Inspires, Not The Light
The scented nature.. soothing me in my sleep, the blushing flowers and the rays from the heaven, shall make better
A Sweet Drowning
Deep within, though an unmanned cave so pristine, the river love in all its glory flows. in bursts of exuberance overwhelming my senses, I hopelessly fall prey to the river and drown
Within me the remains of a faint graffito, I etched on the walls of my fractured heart. The fluxion of an illogical joy so jest, I am bound to a timescale I call my past.
Forever smitten by the tempest in her eyes, and wish for a place in her own tiny vestibules, i walk.. haphazard, in frenzy, fold my parchments of thoughts when all the distance in crude black fades..
Addicted-Truly, Deeply, Madly
To you, truly, madly and deeply, stranger addicted is this innocent boy when love outshone my innocence paved its way in, kissed my heart
I am the Autumn. Falling uneasily on the face of this earth. Yet, expelling frustration in my own style Even without tears, for I know not what are tears
Monsoon's Unconditional Love
I am the monsoon pouring heavily on the face of this earth Yet failing to conceal the misfortune of having been blamed
I am the Autumn.
Falling uneasily on the face of this earth.
Yet, expelling frustration in my own style
Even without tears, for I know not what are tears
A bloody garland made of flowers,
Spring’s gift for the mankind,
put over me by the boy next door.
As I watch the sap drain out of the gasping flowers,