alive
Niuni Yashodhara
April 24, 2026
i’m a haunted house where the echoes of past laughs ring faintly through corridors… paint peeling, flowers on walls, withering
NYPP is a radiant new voice in literature, a young writer whose words unfurl like petals kissed by the dawn. With boundless creativity, they weave stories that shimmer between reality and reverie, leaving readers enchanted by the delicate beauty of their artistry.
i’m a haunted house where the echoes of past laughs ring faintly through corridors… paint peeling, flowers on walls, withering
liminal haze of waking up,to a white walled,cob-webbed coffin,erasing life off too quickly,yesterday forgotten like,history repeating dumb,then get cramped,in a
blinding sun and choking air,smoking nights in a longing lair,holed up naked or walking down clothed, music to my ears
rub the soap till it’s petal thin, water in shampoo to keep it swell, same clothes color fading, washed over
part of this dark i am,she weeps beside meno sound no water,a disoriented beat,with only myself to feelshe and i
sometimes, every word i have ever written seem pointless, devoid of any meaning… that those words are just whims of
i sit in the bus window seat, Dawn on my face.. i imagine i’m in a movie or an aesthetic
the night is dry, sky dripping stars, gravel crunches beneath my feet, i hear a song, above the crickets’ noise,
you feel to me,like dirt under my nails,but my viper heads rise,at the sound of your voice,my hair recoils,when the
there’s a melancholy in me, that i cannot pinpoint yet. i crave sleep, yet the though of drifting makes me
i hate it here…a wasteland of dust,just dust and ghosts,where champagne drowns people in air..where nightmares alive and realizevoices silent
i was already onboard,when she climbed to the deck,she smiled (that damn smile) seas were rough,storms too much,she held my
We burn, against the storms, against the winds, against everything inside, we look out the windows, the grass is always
spin the white lies along those Black truths, life is not a circle of perfection; it’s .. a surfeit of
(adj. that cannot be expressed or described in language) i float through your space,and for a while i tried to
there’s a hood above my eyes, trying desperately to keep’em from shutting down. there’s a hum inside my head, a
light has dressed in a dull pastel yellow,the world is a sea of sky and tomorrows.
there is a bitterness in me,like the aftertaste of alcohol,my throat dry, a scratch —i look in the mirror and
I want to breathe lyrics and exhale oxygenTo feel the tumble of my heart with each breathListening to Lana del
I set my eyes onThe blinding whiteness ofThe left side wall inMy room; It shines with suchA bright dullness thatIt