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I wish they'd rationed my goodness
along with the tag they gave me.
I wish they'd stolen my kindness
when they renamed me an object.
But I remain.
As I have always been.
Hope does not run out of me.
I am never empty—
never without a part of me to give.
~The Handmaid's tale
I don’t know,
how many times I have shed my old skin,
left behind pieces of myself I could no longer call mine.
I don’t know how many times
I have stood in the shadow of my own fear,
felt it tighten around my breath, anchor my feet to the ground—
yet somehow, I always found
the strength to step through it.
I don’t know how many times
I have burned in the grief of my scars,
felt old wounds flicker back to life,
as if pain never forgets the body it once called home.
I don’t know,
how many times I have risen from the ashes,
gathered the remnants of myself,
stood up, still burning—
but alive, still yearning.
~rahul
#prose #poetry #poems
It’s always been the rose,
Not the soft skin,
Nor the hands that hold.
Forgetting thorns
That pierce with ease,
Or dirt in hands that pluck.
It’s never been the hands,
Always the rose they hold.
Only the love,
Not the lover,
Not how petals fall,
But how they’re too soft to pluck.
- Achu B
I may be white, but I do not shine.
They do not glow, these eyes of mine.
I was born to be tainted, I live to be mended.
No matter how much you want me to,
No matter how much the world wants me to.
If I was a moon, I do not shine, when my sun is absent.
#caption
#SammyScribble
I left the table,
not because the feast wasn’t worthy,
but because too many hands
reached for the same plate.
Was I hungry for the food,
or for the space to savor it alone?
Do we desire what nourishes us,
or what no one else has touched?
Is it hunger that drives us,
or the fear of being just another guest
at a table where no one stays?
#Hunger #Desire
#Solitude
Some write, some speak—both can read, both can listen. But then there are those who remain silent, who read and write yet gather everything and keep it hidden. They observe from the shadows, preferring the view from the sidelines—not the spotlight, not the audience. Somewhere in between, they learn—movements so subtle, whispers so quiet—caught between the source and the receiver.
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"Raw Like The Rain"
I do not drown my tempests
in bottled oblivion,
nor hush my demons
with the hush of smoke.
Let them howl -
let them claw -
let the night sink its teeth
into my bones.
I drink my sorrow neat,
undiluted,
burning down my throat,
like a comet that dies
screaming across the dark,
a fire that does not beg for water.
Some chase escape
into the blur of forgetting -
I carve my grief into constellations,
trace my pain
like a cartographer of darkness,
and wear my wounds
like galaxies collapsing into light.
Let suffering stay -
unfiltered,
untamed -
like the rain that does not ask
permission to fall,
like the wind that howls
because it must,
like the sea that swallows ships
without regret.
For what is life if not raw?
What is pain if not poetry -
a song
no throat can cage?
~Ritika Rana ©
Your words turned into roars,
Mere howls of
A hurt animal.
So you stick to silence,
Because you don't know,
Who's the one you can trust,
To listen,
To a crying beast.
#random
#SammyScribble
I don't know where you go,
All these days, throughout the nights,
Crossing the void, devoid of stories, barren of moonlight.
I don't know where you go, all I know,
Is that you go away from me.
#random
#SammyScribble
How are you so sure that it's the face of the moon that you always see, what if it's his back?
Maybe he turns his back to the sun, for he can't bear the blazing sunlight!
And what if, while the whole world is busy praising him for his borrowed beauty, he is just shading tears in a dark corner, for he is nothing but a big gray stone?
#moon
#life
- D's diary
The version of you in the mirror hovers just above, like a fleeting dream. You can feel the light fading from your eyes, your lifeless gaze locking onto the shattered remnants of your reflection. Is it the realization of what once was and what is now destined to be that drives us to the brink of it all?
The part of you that was once naive and shielded now stands exposed to the biting cold of this icy chamber. You can sense the warmth leaving your heart, replaced by chilling, maskable mysteries. Is it all just a repetition, echoing through time like a tale as old as time itself? Am I trapped in an alternate version of a different era, reliving it over and over again?
~The Bewildered Belle
And even if I could simply be a name on your lips that slips through with a smile pertaining to a sweet memory we shared.
I would be sure I have done enough to look after your heart.
#memories
#words
I missed life quietly today.
So quietly that no one noticed.
I woke up, but I didn’t really arrive.
Brushed my teeth, got dressed,
scrolled past strangers living louder than me.
Told myself today would be different,
but somehow, it slipped through my fingers just the same.
I missed it in the way I looked at my reflection,
searching for something familiar but finding only tired eyes.
In the way my day filled up with tasks,
but not meaning.
In the way I spoke, but never really said anything.
I missed it in the conversations I had,
where my words felt rehearsed,
where laughter came out of habit,
where I was surrounded by people
but still felt like a ghost.
I missed it in the afternoon,
as I sat with my books, my work, my distractions—
but my mind wandered between regret and nostalgia.
Thinking of roads not taken,
versions of myself I left behind,
dreams I once swore I’d chase.
I missed it in the ticking of the clock,
in the silent hum of passing hours,
in the way time moved forward
while I stayed in place.
I missed it in the evening,
when the sky burned with colors I didn’t stop to admire,
when the wind carried whispers of people truly living,
while I stayed behind walls I built myself.
Existing, but not present.
Breathing, but not deeply enough.
I missed it without tears,
without noise, without realization.
No dramatic moment, no breaking point—
just a quiet ache settling inside me,
as if life was calling my name…
But I hesitated.
How many days have I missed like this?
How many moments have slipped through my hands unnoticed?
How many more will slip away
before I finally wake up… before life fades away?
~Thoughtless
Do I exist in the things I write,
or am I just putting words together,
hoping they make me real?
Do I stay in your thoughts for a moment,
just a flicker in your mind,
then fade like I was never there?
Do I live in the moments we never had,
the ones that almost happened,
but never did?
Or am I just a story,
a few lines on a page,
trying to mean something?
Or do I only exist—
breathing, waiting,
lying in this bed, doing nothing?
– Iris
Whispers of What Was
I buried my past, yet the flowers still grow,
roots tangled in memories I tried to forget.
The earth remembers what I wish it wouldn't,
turning pain into petals, grief into grace.
Even shadows need light to exist,
darkness dancing at the edges of glow.
A silent reminder—
not all that fades is truly gone,
not all that haunts is meant to harm.
I walk forward,
but echoes follow,
not as chains,
but as footprints—
proof that I once stood,
proof that I still do.
— master
January 2024
It is not magic, that I hold in my hand.
Magic is charming and alluring, but this I hold?
It's wicked, and it's wrathful. It gnaws and eats away at the soul.
It's Power, and it's scary.
Maybe solely because it's in my hand.
#random
#SammyScribble
The bathtub becomes a canvas, whitewashing all scars, allowing you to momentarily escape the shadows that linger beneath the foam, as if the stains of being tainted, bruised, haunted, and disfigured had vanished.
As the suffocating weight of water fills your lungs, a peculiar clarity emerges, drowning out the lights and music, creating a silence where everything fades away. In that submerged realm, a semblance of sanity emerges, offering solace in the midst of the tranquil void.
They say I don’t like colors. That I never play with them.
Funny, isn’t it? No one ever asked me. No one ever cared to.
If they had, they’d know—I love colors more than anything. If I could, I’d devote my entire life to them. I’d let them spill into every corner of my world, let them shape me, define me.
But somehow, somewhere along the way, that love got lost. Not because I wanted it to, but because people decided it for me.
"She doesn’t like colors." They said it so many times, it became the truth. Not mine, but theirs.
And I? I became what they believed. I let go of what I adored, let their words settle into my skin, into my reflection.
Now, when they look at me, they don’t see the girl who once found life in colors. They see the one who stands far away from them.
So, congratulations. You’ve done it. Your mission is complete.
"Not Yet"I know you're bleeding, those traitor winds carved their mark on you. You think closing the window will stop the sting, but somewhere out there, someone gasps for the air that cut you.
Open your eyes. Look at me. There’s more road behind you than you remember, but far more ahead than you can see. You are not done. Not yet.
#Abdo
Maybe I did stoop so low, already dug my nails in the bottom though my fangs look up to the far, far away moonlit sky.
Maybe I lied, hidden things and left them behind me on the stars, and maybe I just told you what you wanted to hear.
But I know, that's better than lying to myself.
#random
#SammyScribble
The “Devil” himself tried to tempt you,
offering kingdoms,
offering eternity,
but even he looked away,
ashamed,
realizing too late—
hell was never his to give,
only yours to command.
Each day, a few ants cross my path,
small, tireless creatures, moving in perfect lines,
as if they know a truth I do not.
Some carry crumbs, fragments of a world too vast for them,
some carry nothing, yet march with the same devotion.
They do not pause to question, do not stray,
only moving forward, always forward.
They build homes they may never live to see,
they gather food for mouths they may never meet,
and when they fall, another takes their place,
as if existence itself is indifferent to their absence.
I watch them, fascinated, unsettled,
wondering if their journey is one of instinct or belief—
and if we, too, are just marching without ever asking why.
#Existence #Philosophy
#Life
I grabbed a handful of grief and sorrow and filled the hole in my heart with it,
How vicious that we need pain to live!
We need pain to silently walk through chaos...
#pain
#short
#random
- D's diary
Tears Smiled
A drop fell, tracing my skin,
cold as silence, soft as a whisper.
Yet when it reached my lips,
it curled at the edges—
a quiet mockery of sorrow.
Was it grief or relief?
Pain or peace?
A contradiction spilling from my eyes,
wearing a disguise
even I couldn’t unmask.
The world saw sadness,
but the tear knew better.
It carried memories,
not wounds.
It smiled,
because it understood—
not all goodbyes are meant to hurt.
— master
I Woke Up Before She Was Gone
She held me like a prayer-
one she was still learning the words to.
Fingers trembling,
breath unsteady,
as if love was something
she had to relearn,
every time she touched me.
Her hands smelled of salt
and something burnt-
Like smoke clinging to skin,
like she had spent her whole life,
putting out fires no one else could see.
She spoke in quiet gestures,
not in words.
She never said "I love you."
She stitched it into my sweater sleeves,
pressed it into the orange slices
she peeled for me,
folded it into the silence between her sighs.
And then one day,
I reached for her hands-
but they did not reach back.
No more stitching.
No more peeling.
No more pressing love into things,
so she wouldn’t have to
say it out loud.
I held them in mine,
and for the first time,
they were still enough for me to understand.
I squeezed her fingers, whispered, “Please don’t go.”
And then-
I woke up.
It was a nightmare,
but I still felt her hands in mine.
~Ritika Rana
11th March, 2025
And this is my prayer to the universe:
May he show me the bud in his palm but refuse it air—
never let me glimpse a bloom I cannot have.
May he draw me a castle and lay its foundation,
but never reveal the marble steps,
the glass chandeliers—if I cannot call them home.
May he entice me with the fragrance of tuberose,
let me live haunted by its scent
rather than learn the snare from which it came.
“The War Beneath Your Skin”
I wish I could stitch
my veins into yours,
force my blood through
your crater corridors,
flush out the poison they left in you,
make you feel what it’s like
to live without the demons clawing at your throat.
I wish I could break your ribs like a butcher at work,
bust them open,
pull out your heart,
scrape off the rot,
and shove it back inside—
still beating,
still yours,
but clean this time.
I wish I could peel back your skin
and replace every scar with my fingerprints,
so you’d never forget
who touched you with something other than brutality.
I wish I could drag your demons out by their throats,
slam them against the fences of this house you call a body,
watch them beg for mercy,
watch them disappear into the dark
like they should have years ago.
But trust isn’t something I can force into your mouth
like medicine you refuse to swallow.
You have to unclench your fists,
let go of the blade you’ve been gripping for so long
that your palms don’t remember how to bleed.
They say I am infuriated,
but what else is left?
When grief is dismissed,
when exhaustion is mocked,
when suffering is called a phase,
what else can I be but a blade
honed by every betrayal
that was disguised as advice?
#fury
I read-
quotes, poems,
fiction and non-fiction,
Not to remember,
not to understand,
not to learn,
but to forget,
forget the world
which can't be found in books
but only in reality!
#life
#books
- D's diary
The world spins,
a carousel of blind ambitions,
we, the monkeys in our polished cages,
clasping gold bars as if they were freedom.
The gods have lost their taste for immortality,
filling their sunken cups with nothing but
the illusion of power,
the scent of power,
the weight of empty crowns.
We build commemoratives to our failures,
line the streets with the carcasses of dreams
we've called "progress."
The future?
A child with an oversized toy,
too small for the world she plays in.
We speak in lingoes of equations,
hoping to divide the mess of this life
into something that makes sense.
But the sum never equals what it promises,
and the answer is always a question.
A perfect paradox—
we worship the sporadic pieces of a fractured reality,
feigning they fit.
And somewhere in the crossroads of our minds,
we wonder if the truth was ever
meant to lay the first stone.
The satire?
It’s in our laughter,
drowned out by the rhythm of the world's ticking,
a clock we never stopped to question.