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Not every story gets an ending,
not every question deserves an answer.
Some things are meant to remain
half-written, half-lived, half-understood.
And maybe that is not failure—
just another way
of letting go.
I used to stare at the ceiling
and wonder how a body still breathes
when a soul gives up.
They say pain makes you stronger—
but all it made me
was numb.
I wore my sadness like a second skin.
People touched my surface
but never asked
why I flinched like that.
Why my smile didn’t touch my eyes.
Why I was always tired
no matter how much I slept.
And then—
God, I don’t even know how to explain it.
She didn’t walk in like light.
She walked in like truth.
Not soft, not easy,
but real.
She looked at me like she knew—
like she'd already read
the darkest chapter of my story
and still wanted to stay
for the rest.
She didn’t fix me.
She just stayed.
Held my hand
when I thought I was too sharp to hold.
Looked me in the eye
and said my name
like it mattered.
I told her everything.
All the shit I buried so deep
I forgot it had weight.
I cried,
and she didn’t flinch.
She stayed.
God, she stayed.
~Ridhima Vedanshi
You'll pray at the door, never knowing what's beyond.
You'll dream of what lies ahead, yet it forever eludes you.
Such is humanity's pursuit—
ridiculing what is seen, worshiping the unknown.
The words disappear, crawling back into the pool of fire in your guts.
Because papers do not deserve these words. Papers are fragile, easy to be torn, quick to burn, and they are light to take wing with the wind.
And even if you make the ink out of ashes and tears, it'll be too poisonous, to the walls, to the trees, to the ears.
That's why, when the words sneak a glance from behind the lump in your throat, and all they see is a shattered pen, they decide to turn their backs on your tongue.
For if the words won't be deserved,
They're going to burn.
#random
#SammyScribble
Oftentimes, my soul and heart ache so much that I wonder if I’ve fooled myself into thinking I am at peace—when in reality, I am anything but. The weight of this lie suffocates me, yet I keep pretending, afraid of what I might find underneath.
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"Hey, hey, where do you think you're going?
I thought we agreed,
That you won't run away anymore. That you will be an obedient child.
You've seen where you always end up fleeing.
Back in my grasp, I mean.
You know what it means to leave my claws aching for a taste of your neck, don't you?
We both know you don't want to choose that. Even though you can, you know you won't like the consequences.
So come on, turn around, come back.
Yes, that's right, good girl,
Such a good girl.
You purchased your pain,
You're going to take it,
Your personal hell you feverishly paid for.
Now, don't keep my crowds waiting.
Show them the fun they paid to watch,
And roar for them,
And for me."
#random
#SammyScribble
"Do they have the right to kill?
And the only right we have is to die!"
The Poem Wrote Me
I did not write this.
I simply sat down,
and something ancient
inside me
began to bloom
in strange syllables.
The poem arrived
like a gale that had
memorized my name.
It wore the scent
of every version of me
I had buried
with shaking hands.
It skinned me open
like I was a letter
never meant to be sealed.
And there,
between the torn folds
of my own silence,
it wrote itself—
not in ink,
but in ache.
Not in grammar,
but in gravity.
And when it was done,
I was no longer who I was.
I had been translated
into something softer,
something whole.
So no—
I did not write the poem.
The poem wrote me.
It found me lost
and left me
spelled
into healing.
After wandering endlessly,
I find myself within me again and again,
In an unguarded corner,
A little out of place.
#healing
#scribble
~FlameHeart©
But you're going to grow up too,
And I pray it happens slower and better than it happened to me.
#random
#SammyScribble
There is a rhythm in the way the wind moves,
A quiet knowing in the sway of the trees.
The ocean does not question the pull of the moon,
And yet, we—who are made of the same dust—
We beg for answers.
We ask the sky why the sun must leave,
Why the stars burn out, why the hands let go.
But tell me, have you ever held the rain
And begged it to stay?
Some things are only meant to pass through you.
O, to be alive is not to be certain,
Not to be fearless, not to be whole.
It is to dance while knowing the music will end,
To love while knowing the hands will slip away.
It is to walk through fire and call it warmth.
The sun does not grieve for the night,
Nor does the river weep when it meets the sea.
So why do we mourn the passing of time,
When time has never mourned for us?
You hold a moment, and already it fades,
You speak a name, and the echo is gone.
But life was never meant to be held—
Only felt. Only lived.
There is no promise in the dawn,
No vow in the rising tide.
Only this:
You are here. You are breathing.
And that is enough.
The universe does not owe you meaning,
Yet, here you are—breathing, aching, laughing.
You are the miracle you have been searching for.
Let your voice be loud even when it shakes.
Let your hands build even when they tremble.
Let your heart open even when it fears—
For what is the purpose of life
If not to be touched by it?
So hold the light, even as the sun sets.
Sing the song, even as your voice shakes.
For to be alive is not to last forever
It is simply to be
~Ridhima Vedanshi
What's perfectly perfect?
I don't know how it feels to do something perfectly,
to be perfect,
or to see perfection
in everything around.
I think a canvas is a blend of chaos,
a butterfly is nothing
but a wanderer
with different stripes on its wings,
A moon,
though it shines at night,
but its shine is not enough
to live a life,
the rain on some winter days
feels a burden on those poor children
who don't have a roof.
So tell me, what does it take to be perfect?
A broken smile with cracked teeth,
or a street hawker with rugged feet?
A stupid doctor who works at night,
or a crazy warrior off for a fight?
A beautiful poem without a rhyme,
or a powerful king with a wicked dime?
A sweet lover with flawless heart,
or a madman ready to tear the world apart?
#life
#love
#questions
- D's diary
The Sadist Writer
Off to write a story today,
let’s see what we can mold with my thoughts’ clay.
A writer whose life was a dramatic play,
came off one day, stuck on a way.
The readers curious—what will he do?
Will he change the subject or stay true?
The writer grins softly, a treacherous view,
his pen starts spilling, as if on cue.
Standing and waiting, readers stay,
curious to know what the writer will portray.
A poem he mends of pure suffering and what agony may—
a poem on parts of his life, a show, a display.
Readers felt disappointed—nothing new,
for it was his usual words they knew.
“Read it once,” the writer blew—
faces twist, eyes watery, the poem stuck them through.
The writer smiled—the words could convey
his true emotions, his real dismay.
The way his gorgeous smile would always betray,
his fierce eyes never portraying any cliché.
Whoever read his words with no clue,
would end up tearing, feeling blue.
The emotions raw, would almost break through—
“The Sadist Writer” the tag he carried with him. Adieu.
– Iris
A Poet’s Immortal Curse
I was born with ink instead of blood,
syllables instead of bones,
a ribcage made of metaphors
that snaps every time I try
to live without writing.
I do not speak;
I unravel.
Every sentence leaves me
a little less whole,
a little more scattered
across pages that will
outlive me.
And that is the curse, isn’t it?
To carve my soul into words
so that one day,
someone who has never met me
can hold my phantom in their hands.
Silence has descended,
though I don’t know if I’ve weathered the storm
or if she is yet to come.
The waters are still,
but I miss the ripples—
back when I wasn’t just skin and bones
but a being of the deep,
my fingers channeling rage into order,
confusion into laws.
It's spring now.
The sun refuses to depart from her canvas,
still painting colors on petals,
gossiping with trees of the winter that has passed.
But I have no words to add,
no anecdote to bear my name.
It’s too bright.
Too lovely.
Peace has long overstayed her welcome.
She is no longer a guest,
but a resident,
and she hates the dark clouds
I once loved to wear over my head.
The parchment rolls across the floor.
The quill aches to be held,
yearning for its lover.
But it’s too bright these days,
and I write better in the dark.
I am not a muse of his poems,
I am the metaphor that didn't fit well,
I am the word which was meant to be removed,
I am the space of which he never cared,
I am not the flow of his verse,
I am the rhyme which was never needed,
I am the simile that didn't make sense,
I am the exclamation he never seeded,
I might not be the purpose of his writing
but I am the only reason he writes!
#him
#you
- D's diary
They all praised your beauty...
in words, in poems, in crowded rooms.
But you only heard
what I said in silence.
Everyone longed for a glimpse of you,
like darkness chasing the moon.
But you gave your first light to me,
a vision, like a forgotten dream returning.
Since the day...
you began to smile, just a little,
while looking my way;
this city,
set itself on fire in my reflection.
Those who never even felt I existed,
now see me, now whisper my name.
As if I hadn’t been breathing,
all along, in the same streets.
The Collector of Nothing
We had agreed to embrace—
so why have you crucified me?
How many hammers
sang cuneiform songs into my palms,
so that the blows on ligament and bone
might become melodies for your rituals?
You dance in Arabic—
and remain unclear.
Our translation of each other falters,
when all I meant by dance
was a justification
for the stuttering of my seizures.
My fingers,
seeking kinship with nails,
began practicing how to become wood.
This could’ve been
just a simple wooden frame—
yet without a photo,
it is more arresting.
The nails are my blood brothers.
If I were to
tear
them
off—
a collection of nothing
would open its mouth
and devour me.
Devouring—
the deepest form of an embrace.
Now that wood has grown into my body,
is this union
a graft—
or a violation?
My hollows, in order to survive,
have accepted their emptiness.
They believe
their inner voids
can be filled—
lost, maybe—
but not gone.
Then why do your fingers
slide into my holes
as if to play a flute,
while I lie forgotten
behind long, sustained notes?
You crucify me—
and now I understand scarecrows.
Each scarecrow is a corpse
of a dance.
If you opened the cracks in their wooden skin,
you wouldn’t see a heart—
only a womb,
the first witness to the tale.
C
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R _ O _ S
|
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S
Still hoping the cross’s intersection
is where my heart lies—
every beat of it
was meant to shake the cage.
But my heart
gave life to the bars.
With half my body flesh, half wood,
I became a carpenter
born of trees.
I seek no wood—
except
my own trunk.
Aref Moallemi
They ask,
what blood rite made you a writer?
Was it the midnight ritual of unwriting yourself?
Was it the devotion to language
that never loved you back?
I do not know.
All I know is—
somewhere between despair and diction,
between oblivion and observation,
I became.
A writer is not one who understands the world,
but one who aches to—
and still,
even with trembling hands,
dares to turn the ache
into architecture.
Tsunami
A dark night.
I could feel it coming.
It had been oddly quiet, with gloom all over.
My soul was in distress.
I couldn't help but scream aloud—quietly and alone.
Those silent tears would help me out,
I had never thought.
The scary sounds of creeping doom.
Those monsters banging on my door.
I run to hide in a corner.
They break in, looking around for me.
I scream in pain, yet again.
But now it's all in vain.
My eyes close.
I witness the dawn.
I'm wandering in the unknown.
I'm in oblivion.
Neither do I feel joy, nor do I feel pain.
Just a strange numbness,
It embraces me tightly.
It is uncomfortably pleasant.
A smile cracks on my lips.
Those fears would make me strong,
I had never thought.
The sunrise.
The waves washed me off to the shore.
My breathing is heavy.
The Sun is shining brightly.
I now feel His warmth.
I glance at my shackles,
They are a bit rusty now.
My eyes have opened, fully.
Just a little more wait,
And I would be myself again—
In search of a new me.
Those chains would set me free,
I had never thought.
The tsunami had the key to my caged mind,
I had never thought.
I’ve called a ceasefire
between the part of me
that dreams of building empires
and the part that secretly hopes
everything collapses beautifully.
every day,
I wake up
a battlefield swept clean—
but the blood knows
it’s only pretending to be water.
The dried rosebud—
the one I pressed between pages years ago,
like a moment I couldn't let go—
it's blooming again.
Not in the way flowers bloom in spring,
but in the way something dead
remembers it was once alive.
The edges, once brittle,
now seem to soften,
as if time folded backward,
as if my longing was water
and memory, light.
I open the book
expecting silence,
expecting dust,
but there it is—
the same little rose,
breathing again.
Maybe it never died.
Maybe I never stopped hoping.
Maybe some parts of us
wait in the quietest corners
for the right warmth
to rise again.
And maybe, just maybe,
this time,
I'll let it bloom
in my hands,
not hide it
in the dark.
~ rahul
#poems #poetry #prose
The Boy Who Cried Wolf
He sets about midnight,
his voice slicing through the thickness of the dark,
a grieving scream—
"I'm hurt!" he shouts,
sending my dream scattering.
I wonder, as he cries for phantom pain,
when has he ever truly given his heart?
A quarter to three,
and he resumes—
a blood-curdling scream:
"I'm betrayed! I'm scorned! I'm a saint—
a helpless creature slain by a wicked girl!"
His voice steals the sleep from my eyes,
and I wonder, when has he ever truly loved?
Dawn breaks,
pitying my restless night.
Away he goes,
back to his masquerade—
the lovesick protagonist,
the noble hero in his own mind.
You listen
like every word
is sacred.
But when was the last time
someone
heard you?
#ShortScribbles
The sky shifts
from blue to grey.
Tears I once let slip away—
I now trap in glass,
watch them turn
to salt.
I press it to my wounds,
burning myself
to feel alive.
Again,
my eyes spill over.
Again,
I gather the drops,
let them harden into pain,
and apply them
once more.
A cycle of self-splitting—
etched by my own hands.
And I
only wish
for it to end.
When poets fall they cherish the depth, the pull of love's gravity,
even though they'd never find the ground to safely anchor their love to.
#happiness
#poetry
I do not care if they're unnamed, and it shouldn't matter if they're unfulfilled.
These feelings will last, unwavering,
Until death do me apart from them.
#random
#SammyScribble
They call me sovereign.
They say I wear the air of kings,
move like something chosen by the sun itself.
But they do not see the throne of withering wood,
the crown that bruises my skull.
I have built my kingdom from shadows,
learned to stand tall
on the bones of a man
I do not remember becoming.
They call me sovereign.
But I have seen the mirror.
I have seen what kneels
there in the dark,
whispering the names
of every false god
who ever mistook himself for real.
In the peak of my rage, when fury has sunken deep, you abandoned my pleas, you insisted to stay.
Was it fear that petrified me in place, or was it the temptation, the selfish longing for a taste of the ink in your vessels?
And yet,
You were too sacred, it was impossible for me to lose control.
You were too precious, for me to even try to demolish.
#random
#SammyScribble
I do not crave love,
only comprehension—
to be read as one reads scripture,
with reverence,
with patience,
with the intent to understand
rather than to respond.