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Not poetry but...
It was a normal sunny day and I was waiting for a green signal on the road, so that I could cross.
With my head slightly tilted I was looking at all of the vehicles hurrying somewhere. When out of nowhere I heard 'didii', and my eyes suddenly went to the school bus standing on the other side of the road, maybe for dropping off a kid.
There sat a small girl on the second last window seat, grinning, as if she could see wonders. Those shiny white pearls between her lips were glimmering under the sun. Her smile was far away from this brutal world's malice. Her eyes were that of something different from this world. She waved her hand at me, too enthusiastically, so I waved her back, with a smile of my own. Her voice caught the attention of the little boy sitting in front of her seat, he looked at me and waved too, resulting in one more boy to look at us and wave, probably he had no idea what was going on, but still he did.
I waved at them as the bus started to move, and my eyes again went to the girl who was still smiling, like it's her priority to smile.
I slowly crossed the road thinking, how God has his own way to make someone's day.
#life
- D's diary
Men are simple creatures,
sculpted from quiet dreams and unspoken fire.
Give them a gaze that rests like a whispered promise,
a touch that says, I see you, I know you, you are enough.
Speak their name with the warmth of love, and watch them bloom sunflowers turning to roses.
#Abdo
Dear heart,
I’ve always wished for the floating clouds to cradle you—
Not the prickling hay,
Nor the coldness of a stone.
That’s why I kept away from the fume of his breath,
Spiraling out to claim my neck.
Why I kept my skin
Far from his touch,
And my gaze lowered—
Afraid to catch a glimpse of his allure.
Before our demons introduced themselves,
Conversing in foreign tongues,
Until their languages aligned.
Before we learned the weight of each other’s pain,
Before the first tear fell—
Before felicity’s mirth
Broke into a fragile smile.
After he laid an embroidery
Of my unborn thoughts before my feet,
And I danced for him—
Moved by the tunes of his unvoiced desires.
After we mastered
The art of creating one melody from two keys.
Only then did I wish for you to—
But why bother, dear heart,
When time follows her own accord?
Inconsiderate of humanity’s blight,
And their fevered yearning to possess a kindling
That conceals an inferno in her womb.
Borrowed Memories
They don’t fit me,
these borrowed memories
tailored for someone else’s scars.
I wear them anyway,
their seams splitting,
their threads unravelling
each time I try to make them mine.
You handed them over like artefacts,
polished but cracked,
as if I wouldn’t notice the fractures
concealed beneath their sheen.
What was I supposed to do?
Refuse? Pretend? Return them?
I’ve learned to cradle them
like glass already shattered.
Sometimes I question their origin:
Was this laughter ever real?
Did this joy belong to you,
or did you steal it from another dreamer
who had nothing left to give?
I tried stitching your stories
into my own narrative,
but they don’t align.
The threads pull taut,
forming patterns that don’t match
the topography of my life.
And yet—
there is something alluring
about borrowed memories.
How they grant you a stranger’s clarity,
how they deceive you
into thinking the past is a library
you can check out at will.
But borrowed is never owned.
When the memories fade,
and they will,
what remains?
Only a residue,
a phantom of feeling
you were never meant to keep.
Tell me
if I return them to you,
what will you do with them?
Will you remember them as mine?
Or will you forget
you ever shared them at all?
It’s true,
life moves fast,
but not so fast
that I lose myself in its race.
If my pen calls out to me,
I must listen.
I won’t let the pages stay blank.
To bury my feelings
in the graveyard of my heart
I cannot be so cruel to myself.
Be it busy mornings or restless nights,
giving breath to words is my right.
It’s who I am.
In this rushing world,
I must pause,
hold on to a moment or two,
and weave them into poetry.
Words left unspoken
don’t wait forever.
They fade,
they disappear,
they never come back.
When you intend your words to be envelopes folded of their gist,
darling, don't expect me to unravel their meaning when I've been letting you read my heart like an open book.
#hope
#words
The self calls gently,
but you chase illusions
too loud to notice.
~ rahul
You understand it's a low tide; it always will be. But how badly you wish to be carried away. You blame your weight and envy a feather—by now, it would have reached the heart of the ocean where you dream to be. So, you bow before the very thing you wish for and lie down in hopes that you'll feel every drop seeping into your being.
-Instagram Inspo
The only thing that pulls a smile from me—
the only thing that silences the storm
in my chest, that makes my breath come easy, like the world isn’t pressing down—
is the child that lives inside me!
Ah, you should see him! Small hands reaching for the sky like it’s his to hold,
eyes wide with wonder,
untouched by weight, untouched by time.
He smiles at flowers like they’re old friends, leans in as if they’re telling him secrets.
And butterflies—God, they leave him breathless! He stands there, frozen,
watching them dance through the air,
like they exist just to amaze him.
And animals—oh, they know him.
A dog wags its tail at him like they’ve been waiting to meet,
a squirrel stops just close enough, staring, trusting, believing in something unspoken.
He laughs, he runs, he believes!
And when I let him take over—just for a moment—the world feels lighter.
And I—oh, I remember what it means to be free!
~rahul
#poems #prose #poetry
The body was not designed
to be a burial ground
for every unspoken grief,
for every swallowed fire.
I was taught that silence
was synonymous with strength,
that biting-back anger
made me softer, kinder,
but softness should not come
at the cost of suffocating my own existence.
I have been tucking myself into smallness for so long
that I have forgotten
how to be whole.
"Can I Cry?"
Can I cry?
Will the stars dim if I do?
Will the earth hush its whisper,
Or will it hold me too?
Tears fall, quiet as rain,
Tracing the paths my words could not.
Soft rivers on weary skin,
Echoes of battles I never fought.
The night listens,
The wind hums low,
The world does not shatter—
It simply lets go.
So I cry, not in weakness,
But in the strength to feel.
And in the stillness after,
I learn how to heal.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ- Master
Soliloquy of the Abyss
The void stares back,
its maw a maelstrom of abstraction.
I offer it my fears,
my aspirations,
my ineffable truths,
and it swallows them whole,
leaving behind
only an abscess in my chest.
There is a lexicon for despair,
its phonemes jagged,
its cadence discordant.
And yet, even in its cacophony,
I find the semblance of solace—
an elegiac harmony
that reminds me I am
both wound and witness,
both exile and home.
#abyss
Is it possible to feel homesick in your own home?
A nauseous feeling, like you don't belong here,
yet you must live and explore here.
This homesickness is strange yet compelling,
a side of home we never knew existed—
one where we feel suffocated and alone.
Constant headaches and bickering in every corner.
Is this what a home looks like?
No comfort, no empathy,
just an urge to run away.
This place is not a home,
but a shelter where we get food and clothes.
Not a home, but a house
with blood-related people known as family—
people who want us to change,
to be a version of ourselves we can never be.
The air in this place feels familiar yet distant, known yet unknown.
The bed is the only place that feels like home,
wrapped in this blanket, resting on these sheets.
But can we hide under the blanket forever?
And never come out?
– Iris
Through the tunnels of shuffled music, I walk
until my legs lift from the ground.
Clanking chains of thoughts dig into my skin,
and with every step, they speak louder and louder,
until I am sucked into myself—
as if my brain wants me locked in my skull,
as if having me listen was never enough.
I must attend the brewing ceremony of overthinking,
the christening of obsession,
the dawn of brooding terror.
If it weren’t for the screeching brakes
and the blaring horns,
this infernal cycle might have dissolved.
"The Unseen One"
She’s not in the crowds,
not in the streets I walk,
but in the corners of my mind,
where dreams are born and die.
A face I’ve never seen,
but one I know like the back of my hand,
as if it’s written in the lines of my soul.
I feel her in the quiet moments,
when I close my eyes and the world fades,
a shadow that dances on the edge of my dreams,
always just out of reach,
but never quite gone.
She’s the person I love without a name,
a heartbeat that matches mine in silence.
A voice I’ve never heard,
but I can hear it in every sigh,
in every whisper of the wind.
I wonder if she knows me,
if she’s out there,
in another life,
maybe somewhere I haven’t been,
maybe in a place where we could meet,
where the sky opens wide,
and the clouds move aside
just for us.
But until then,
I’ll live with the dream,
the one where she’s real,
the one where we’re both finally found,
in a world where distance doesn’t matter,
where the space between us is just another thought,
fading like stars in the morning light.
- master
To love a poet is to break like they did,
To feel their emotion is to be with their every piece,
To share their pain is to stand where they once did,
To know their own self is to read their every verse,
every word, every phrase.
#poet
#love
#short
- D's diary
The arms threw
accusations at the ribs,
jealous of their closeness to the heart.
“We reach out for the world,”
they declared,
“while you sit still and guard your treasure.”
The ribs, unbothered,
sighed against the lungs and whispered,
“You envy us,
but it’s your embrace
she remembers.”
Darling, shall I thread your tears
and crown atop my mind?
So they'll seep into its thoughts
and claim its purpose;
eventually sprouting thorns in my heart,
allowing their guilt to claw at my senses,
every time I am to love yet again,
at the expense of my will
to seek flawed forevers.
#agony
#words
I would rather bear the weight of infinite disappointment, let torment wrap itself around me like a lover scorned, and endure the merciless torture of my soul for the things I unknowingly dragged down from their celestial heights. Punish me, break me, shatter me into a thousand irreparable fragments—anything, anything but the unbearable sight of the light leaving your eyes. Anything but the cruel burden of telling the tale of your end to the amber hearts of the past, the ones who would listen with pity and sorrow, their faces etched with the same grief I’d carry forever.
I would rather turn around and face the demons I’ve hidden from, let them claw at the marrow of my weary bones, let them carve fear into my flesh and whisper my failures into the hollows of my mind. I would rather be laid bare to the monsters I’ve birthed in my darkness than allow you to step past the gates of my crumbling castle. You must never see what lies within.
For what would you find? Ruins. Twisted remnants of once-proud towers, now overgrown with the vines of regret and despair. A throne made of false charm and fractured glass, cutting anyone who dares approach. No, you cannot witness me like this, stripped of the illusions I wear so carefully. You cannot confront the chaos that lives in my shadow, the wreckage of a soul too tarnished to save.
Better I face the horrors alone. Better I shield you from the truth of what I am, even if it means I burn in the process. Because if you were to stand before me in my ruin, gazing at the brokenness I’ve tried so desperately to hide, I fear the pain of that moment would undo me far more than any demon ever could.
I'm not one, I'm two—
two women, or rather,
one woman and a girl.
A seasoned lady, calm and composed,
watching over a wild, insecure rebel.
The woman, steady and quiet,
watches the prancing girl
hover over the edge of a cliff,
unfazed by rolling pebbles
plummeting to their end in the sea.
The girl runs, skips, teases her fall,
screaming to the open air,
"I have to live! There's but one life for all—we're not granted eternity!"
Terror ripples through the woman,
yet she does nothing more than watch.
She grants freedom,
saying, "We need but one adult, not two,"
standing there, ready to guide,
if ever the girl will listen.
The girl loves serpents—
their patterned skins,
their hypnotic hisses,
how they slither with elegance,
invoking fear while remaining
a marvel of grace.
The girl chases lightning—
a whip of destruction,
humble and thin,
glorified in a fleeting streak of light,
remembered by the chaos
it leaves behind.
She swoons, loves without restraint,
drawing passion from a bottomless well,
summoning devotion from boundless air.
She wears her pain
like a badge of honor.
Though the woman traded her wings
for skepticism,
she's there when the girl
returns bruised and weary from her flight.
Though the woman chose the constant ground
over the restless sea,
she's there to offer warmth
when the girl emerges,
shivering and drenched from her swims.
And together, they share quiet moments—
meditating on rain drops rippling
tiny puddles,
marveling at sunsets,
silent and still.
Once a story begins, it has to end. Today or someday, there will always be an end to it. These moments written are not true but merely a dream—the kind of love I cherish, a magical dream I long for.
So, I keep these moments close, letting them dance in the corners of my soul—little pieces of my imagination, little moments I’ll always long for.
Archer of Sorrow
Behold—
the archer of sorrow, draped in robes stitched
from the threads of forsaken promises,
quiver rattling with arrows dipped in the ink
of unspoken apologies,
each fletched with feathers plucked
from the wings of fallen angels
who forgot how to pray.
His bow is carved from the rib
of a god who choked on his own divinity,
splintered with regret, varnished
with the sweat of men who thought
they could outrun their grief.
He pulls the string not with fingers,
but with the sinews of past lives,
stretched taut by the tension of things
that should have been said
but fossilized instead,
buried beneath the rubble
of yesterdays no one dared excavate.
His arrows don’t pierce the skin—
no, that would be merciful.
They slip between the ribs,
thread the labyrinth of veins,
find the pulse,
and sit there—
like unwanted guests
who refuse to leave,
draining the room
of whatever warmth dared remain.
He hunts without a map,
without a name,
his target etched not on walls
but in the hollow cavities
where laughter used to grow.
Even the moon averts her gaze,
spilling her light elsewhere,
ashamed of how often
she’s watched him win.
And yet, his aim is flawless,
undaunted by prayers,
unmoved by bargains.
The archer never misses—
he simply waits
until you think
you’ve healed.
#sorrow
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When your soul craves,
write it down,
When it bleeds more than a graze,
write it down,
When your throat gets clogged,
and no words could prove you,
When there's no one to believe and
you know everyone will leave you,
write it down,
When it hurts to say
or when your heart is in the way,
When it's a sin to speak and your voice is weak,
write it down.
- D's diary
The child inside me,
when I let him take over,
even for a moment,
I breathe.
#poetry #prose #poems
The Masquerade:
On the surface,
Fun and mysterious.
Lighthearted chatter,
Elegant gowns,
And handsome suits.
Animal masks,
Embellished ones,
Or maybe even plain:
All serving their purpose,
That does intrigue.
But behind them all,
Sharp smiles,
Darkened gaze,
A confidence that wouldn't be,
Otherwise.
A person that wants to be seen,
But not for who they are.
Their devious plans,
Without mock or scorn.
All away from the eyes of scrutiny.
Their primal instincts,
Unrestrained.
Here, they come to play.
The Special Someone
Oftentimes I wonder, if there's someone to celebrate the birthday of the 'day'. A new day.
But who has gotten so much time to waste on silly things like that? Who would like to celebrate a birthday every single day?
But someone has. The one who decorate the whole sky with strings of stars, some big, some small. Someone who wants to make every bit of it beautiful, but ends up breaking off the string, which causes the stars to fall off far away, leaving the sky messed up, but serene in its own ways.
"There's always someone to make everything right for you,
But it becomes normal for you, when they start to do it every day..."
#life
#love
- D's diary
"I am running out of todays
to fulfill the dreams of tomorrow."
There was the shadow of herself on the wall, plain and invisible. A flicker of existence only revealed when the light dared to come too close. It lingered there, a quiet contradiction, like a secret everyone knows but no one dares to mention.
It is unloyalty, yet it demands allegiance, a reckless, impossible claim. Can you imagine the chaos it would unleash? To be one thing, to carry the weight of one truth, and yet demand another to hold you, to cradle you in the fragile arms of values you have never owned, never upheld?
It is madness and the madness no longer hides.It stands there now, unmasked, it's wounds raw and exposed, its ugliness no longer softened by the lies it once told itself.
The shadow is her, and it is not.
It is the fractured piece of her soul she cannot reconcile, the part that holds its breath when the light draws near, afraid of being seen, yet desperate for recognition.
And what is left, but this trembling chaos?The weight of contradictions, the fragile balance of a self that cannot decide whether it wants to be whole or simply to disappear.
Every lie I’ve told
is more honest than
the truths I’ve kept.
The lies wore bold colours,
the truths faded into beige.
They think lies betray,
but I’ve only ever used them
to protect the parts of me
that truth would destroy.