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I know. There’s no reason I should love you more than other girls. Yet for some inexplicable reason, I have chosen you; I want to shower you with my attention, and in turn I want you to shower me with lots and lots of your attention too.
I don’t know if what I have for you is love or simply infatuation. But I do know:
I really, really do want to be-
Intoxicated by you.
[ Will you be my drink? ] "Flowers" #journal, entry 32.2
I opened one of my favorite books
and found a rose pressed between the pages.
I lifted it gently—
for the first time, I touched a rose and didn’t bleed.
Its thorns, softened by time,
brushed my skin, soothing instead of piercing.
I held it close,
this time not returning it to its place.
I knew then, this was never just a rose.
- Achu B
"Keyboard Warriors"
Chaos and conflict everywhere;
Everyday it's warfare.
The juice of distance and anonymity
Give rise to warriors of smartphones and PC.
Safe and sound behind the screen,
Untouchable, it all seems.
Enemies far across the world
Can't do nothing against fierce words.
Behind the guise of fake profiles
Are walking garbage piles.
Smell of foul utterances,
Never miss the passing chances.
Gender war and racism,
Political debate and religious argument.
Anything can be accomplished
As long as you have the gun and wish.
Commit cyberbully
And character-murder.
Go play judge, jury,
And executioner.
But technology doesn't breed monsters,
It merely encourages who already are.
Those stink in real life, online will they thrive;
Of logic and compassion they are deprived.
May we fall not into such life.
The Soul of My land
If my country was a sound,
It'd be the call to prayer at dawn,
The laughter of children playing.
It’d be the hum of a bustling market
And trade,
And the echo of footsteps on streets
where history was made.
If my country was a light,
it'd be the flame of a lantern.
It’d be the golden rays
On al-Quds stones,
where every exile finds home.
If my country was a taste,
It'd be za'atar on warm bread,
The sweetness of dates.
it’d be the salt of the Dead Sea,
And sweet figs from our ancient tree.
It’d carry the tang of olives,
The richness of oil,
The flavors of a land nurtured through love and toil.
If my country was a scent,
It'd be jasmine,
Or the smoky scent of oud.
It’d be the fertile soil,
Watered by tears and rain,
And the fragrance of hope,
Rising again enduring through pain.
These days my pen writes on eggshells with apologies and sparing analogies. It writes in strikes and silence. With a hesitancy of an unwanted lover, with the timid colors of disuse.
It writes with fear of not being of worth. Burdened guilt of all the empty pages of the past month. It aches to write yet
The morsels of sweets I once wished to never share, now taste bland having them all for my own.
#silence
#happiness
Pretty eyes, trapped in the manor of a king like a jailed sailor of the seas,
Pretty eyes, ones that need not to look at me to convince me to cease,
Pretty eyes, all that you are and will be is forgotten in each gaze,
Pretty eyes, the skims of your soul veiled behind the cast of your daze.
~how cruel and enviously sad to be you
Eyes of Lahore
Her eyes of Lahore,
raging fires within,
as if a pious folklore
succumbed to sin.
Irises of ivory ink,
hinting bits of green,
mellow brown brows—
places they have been.
They drip and weep,
the magma of memories.
They chuckle and sulk
over saccharine stories.
When meandering rivers run
and reveries quietly flow,
her eyes of Lahore blink,
and the wheezy winds blow.
- Prakhar Mishra
She swallows every joy
with malign eyes,
even her own,
when she witnesses their smiles,
not that she resents her fruits,
but she can't taste their sweetness
with all that bitterness on her tongue,
she forgets her efforts she reaped them with,
when she's caught on what others sow
deeming them to be unworthy of it.
Disdain her judgements;
as they seem to be,
but for others only? No,
they grow the same in her reflections,
despite there are only tears and no smile.
The royalty she always dreamt of,
she bites spite for those born with it
and chews reason of her own sanity,
her softness caved in
surrounded by covetous thorns,
now they all seem to have grown
into her own enemy.
#toxic
#envy
If a person has their own strength,
they also have their own weaknesses.
If a person has their own weaknesses,
they also have their own strength.
A person who seems strong,
isn't always strong.
A person who seems weak,
isn't always weak.
A person has their own ability that no one else has,
but the only ability that everyone has is to save or destroy humanity.
-Unknown-
I could belong to a million worlds, drift through countless galaxies,
but if you don’t look at me like I’m the only star in your sky,
it feels like my light dims, like I’m somehow less.
And is there anything more painful, more corrosive, than measuring yourself by someone else’s gaze?
Maybe it's my heart’s fault for being blind.
It could have chosen anyone, drifted freely through a crowd of souls,
but it stopped for you, lingered, offered itself—fragile and raw.
Knowing full well there are others who’d cherish you better, who’d offer you a softer love.
Still, I stay, caught between sense and surrender.
Maybe it’s not the wisest choice, but there’s this quiet, steady pull,
a strange satisfaction in orbiting around your shadow.
So I stay, for as long as my heart insists,
for as long as it feels right, like I’m where I belong.
#us
~©Darkpit
Better than keeping those feelings buried inside—at least this way, we don’t burn ourselves as deeply. We can burn our poems without setting our own hearts aflame.
Читать полностью…
Make these midnights dance in the light as I rest inside all the faint moments,
Make these dreamy smiles appear real for a while as I fall on cherry waterfalls,
Make the vault of heaven obey as though I am reading librettos written on the clouds,
Make your gray skin change to olive in the middle of our roguery nights.
Being a writer
is like an open ticket for the
world to observe what goes on
in your mind, to read aloud your
shambled thoughts
and invade every angle.
Like a garden with flowers,
they pluck out their favorites
and trample the grass.
— Myra
When was the last time
someone truly asked
if you were okay,
not because it was routine,
but because they saw the storm
behind your eyes
and were brave enough to wait for the thunder to speak?
When did someone pause long enough
to feel your quiet grief
without needing to fix it,
just allowing it to be
without rushing to “make it better”?
When was the last time
someone held you,
not to fill your space with words,
but to sit in the silence
and let you be
exactly who you are?
I sat to write,
to weave something,
something that might make you feel
the way I feel inside.
But the stars in the sky
are endless,
and writers?
The world overflows with them.
Each one
a touch brighter than me.
I do not envy them,
but I wonder....
What if my pen
had such a flame,
One that could ignite the soul
of the one who reads?
A fire,
so human and raw,
that it draws every buried feeling
to the surface.
Words that carry
the beauty from the heavens,
and warmth of a hug
that whispers, You are not alone.Читать полностью…
I see a mould of a child in the wraps of a decomposing soul. It is dispiriting to be vindictive while childlike excitement makes you forget you're thrown into the sands of time.
I see the skeletons of past lives lurking in hopelessly shiny eyes. It is melancholy of the knowing surpassing all that you see while laughing in between all that you think you could tame.
I see a picturesque figure of a little girl running through fields of sunflowers while holding the cold hands of a witch. It is the looming doom in the air while trusting your forest is meant to be sane.
I see a bridge of broken homes burning from a brush of the wind and the hiss of the wrestling leafs while the cracks are covered in mimosa all over the terrain.
What if the meaning of existence
isn’t a destination
but a process,
a becoming?
We rise, we fall,
we break, we heal,
and somewhere in the expanses
we understand
that to exist is to transform,
to drag pieces of each memory
with us,
to let them change us
until we are something new.
Content Warning: mention of suicide
A Suicide Note
A small portal
decorated with all the words
they could find.
Lots of thank yous and sorrys
wrapped neatly in their bones.
Each line blurring into
one another,
punctuation falling apart.
They missed the 'f' in life
maybe purposely,
no, maybe, too hurried
to make their leave.
Some parts soaked in tears
they tried to hold them back,
tried not to make this part
of life ugly as well.
They'll end everything
with the promise of
being a better son,
a better daughter,
a better husband,
a better wife in the next life.
And you'll not find
a full-stop at the end,
they stole it,
swallowed that little english poison.
I went into my own world over summer,
and never left.
And honestly, I don’t want to.
It feels good there—peaceful in those fleeting hours,
where time stretches like sunlight over a meadow,
and I am free to exist without the weight of expectation.
Yet here I am,
fighting to stay in this world—
out of some kind of obligation.
But perhaps "stay" is the wrong word,
since I am not even here anymore,
and I don’t think I ever was.
And why would I ever feel obliged to a cold place that never served me,
that’s only caused pain,
and always felt the furthest from home?
Maybe it’s the weight of all the memories—
the faces that once held me, the spaces I once filled.
Perhaps it’s guilt for leaving this world—
the one that provided shelter, food,
even though it could never provide warmth.
Not even when I wrap myself in its comforts;
it’s like layering myself in thin ice—
blankets that cannot hold the heat of a home I’ve never known.
And so I’m caught,
torn between two worlds—
each pulling with a magnitude so overwhelming,
it feels like the tension between two tectonic plates—
one moment, I’m in the light,
the next, dragged into shadows.
The divide is so wide,
they can never coexist.
One world shatters into fragments every time I reach for it.
The other, freezing and cruel,
forcing me to stay.
Gravity forcing me down everytime I mimick the birds,
but I’m too much of a wimp to pack and leave,
especially when I know rockets exist.
I have to take my stand,
I have to choose,
for I’d never survive the collision of these two worlds.
But how could I choose?
When my world feels like the sunbeam on a lotus lake in april,
while in this one, I only survive.
And each time I return to reality,
the aftereffects of my own world leave me dazed, unfocused—
lost between hours,
as if my mind is elsewhere—
and it is.
I am elsewhere.
A flicker of light, in a non-existent wormhole—
caught between what was, what is, and what could never be.
And yet,
I
am
here.
We tame the anger, but the pain still burns within.
We don the armor of invulnerability, seeking freedom from its sting.
Yet high on pain, the battle turns bitter,
Leaving the very world that bears witness gasping for air, suffocated by its weight.
©® Victoria Damilola
You hone the blades in your corset when the moon is full,
And the sharper you get, the duller the hearths pull,
You ink the empty white sheets every single night,
And the deeper these stains are, the harder it is to write.
My crumbled grief,
I search for you
in every woman that ever held me.
My crumbled grief,
I search for you
in every man that ever kissed me.
Destiny was reliving your grandmother's ambitions, the flames that set her apart from everyone. I envied her passions, the long strokes of her brushes on her limited secluded life. And she envied the power her passions gave me. Oh what she would do to them if she ever had the chance at a taste of freedom like mine. At times she only wrote to me in hopes that I fulfill what she couldn't. She tied the knot of her hands behind her back to untie my ruins.
You don't know her like do. She was once me and unlike me too.
Eternal Resolve
I wish the tears we shed
would bring change,
And the wailing
that dried our throats
would ease this pain.
We have been patient,
we are patient,
and we will remain,
For losing hope in God
is disbelief's reign.
Oh, land upon which people once cried,
We've grown up by your side.
Oh, land sold by cowards,
you are ours, and we are yours,
and nothing will separate us
except death.
Can I write about myself?
No, they won’t like it.
Fine.
Can I atleast start my sentences with "I"?
No, they'll say I make everything about me.
And Blues? Forget it—
Only bliss matters to them.
Alright, I'll write something cheerful.
They say my words aren't fancy enough.
Fine.
I'll get myself a dictionary and craft a superficially sophisticated poem.
Now it's my behavior they criticise.
Okay, I'll put a mask on my face
and not speak a word.
They say,
I get confused between 'it's' and 'its' a lot.
Got it. I’ll be careful.
But now they say they dislike people pleasers.
Well, I—
Enough.
A people pleaser,
but can I ever please people?
I bet not.
~ jeeya <3
What if I tell you I am not as strong
as I appear to be, that the smiles are a well-rehearsed play?
Would you turn away,
or would you stay,
fingers tracing the pale truth
hidden beneath the layers?
I want to be seen
not as a poem of strength,
but as a story still finding its way.
Let me weave tales from strings of darkness and show you my abode among ravens and serpents.
Let me dip into the sea of broken dreams and behold the pictures on my bloody skin carved by the shards.
Don't bring me out the cave where the light obliterates my shadows, my strings of eternal tales.
What is there for me to bend and craft among the monotone white and the ever glaring colors?
I'll test my eyes in finding wonders amid the bleak and hear a torrent of voice where the animation of life comes to die.
In the end, I realized it was never just about the hurt—the sting of being wounded by people I adored, or the sharp edge of their words cutting where I was most vulnerable. Even as the pain lingered, I found myself loving them deeply, perhaps even more fiercely than before.
But something essential shifted.
I no longer trusted them. I could no longer look into their eyes and feel the warmth of being able to open these wounds without the fear of being pushed down.
I could never be the same again.
#agony
~©Darkpit
KID. ADULT. KID.
If I were a kid again,
I would learn to draw.
As an adult, I don't
even know how to draw
a boundary.
If I were a kid again,
I would learn to say no.
As an adult, I struggle
to decline.
If I were a kid again,
I would learn to maintain.
As an adult, I have
only learned to mess
things up.
If I were a kid again,
I would learn to let go.
As an adult, I cling
even to toffee wrappers,
given by my loved ones.
If I were a kid again,
I would learn to live.
As an adult, I merely
survive and rest less.
If I were a kid again,
I would learn what's
necessary,
so I wouldn't have to
unlearn what's not.
~ jeeya <3