Can you hear it loud and clear?
Come closer, over here
It's screaming from within my deep hearts core
Can you hear my silent roar?

The saddest goodbyes
are not the ones that are said
but are left untold

Looking strong,
Isn't always an advantage.
    Sometimes,
They forget you're human.
                They break you
                               And break you
                                              And break you,
And won't even bother to ask,
     If you're ok.

Fully cooked batter,
Sprinkle of half-baked sighs.
A recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Throw out the salt;
Add aged cheese,
A dollop of sugar,
A dash of chilies.

Don’t mention the sweat,
Nor the quiet cries.
Because
It’s the recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Serve the truth,
Or leave it dry.
Maybe a pinch of water,
But never a lie.

You loved me.
I've hurt you.
I'm sorry.

It's all on me.
No one else is wrong.
Let them blame.

Is this enough?

I've cried rivers,
Become a desert.
There's no more life left.

Is this enough?

My friends are gone.
I took them for granted.
I stand alone and empty.

Is this enough?

I slap myself,
When a smile creeps.
I don't deserve it.

Is this enough?

Your needs come first.
Trample on me.
I am your slave.

Is this enough?

I've lost it all-
my tears,
my friends,
my happiness,
my respect,
my humility.

Is this enough?

Will you forgive me?

Doctors see more blood
in sterile rooms
than soldiers do
on broken land.

You look, but do you see
between the lines of my poetry?
You hear, but do you heed
the turmoil beneath my silent plead?
You think but do you wonder
if I'm okay after years of blunder?
You sense but do you feel
my true colors shut by a seal?

Stems of memory
sprout from the roots of our heads,
nourished by cleansing rituals and events.
As we mature, so do they—
a young, shaggy tuft flourishes into thick threads,
looping at the ends like grapevine curls.

Some strands grow weak and brittle,
corroded by storms of stress,
waves of sweat,
droughts of heat,
and floods of chemicals.

Eventually, they loosen—
too exposed, too old to thrive alone—
and slip down the drain in scribbles of ink,
pulling along unfinished stories and thoughts,
leaving gaps, holes,
blank spaces in memory.

In time’s wrath,
what once bloomed and burgeoned
wilts and withers
into dry, forgotten clumps—
until one day,
no roots, no memories—
only silence.

Summer's coming to an end,
It's time for school to begin.
Classes shuffled,
Noises muffled—
School's never been this silent.

In a class of 34,
I've never felt this alone.
My pen, my only company.
Though there's less time for poetry.
No more free periods,
Just teachers shouting.
Period

Reading and reading—
A slow misery.
Just four more years—
Then I'm set free.

Summer's coming to an end,
It's time for school
to begin...

You say I have an attitude
'Cause I don't mingle a lot?
Sweetie, you need a wording check —
That's called being left out.

Even if I preferred the space,
It doesn't make me an egoist.
There's a term called "introverts" —
Do add it to your vocab list.

People like you destroy innocent souls,
All for the need of your own
Self-satisfactory goals.

People like you don't deserve praise —
Instead, y’all need dents on your face.
For luring us into your sweet-scented trap,
Expecting joy — all we got was crap.

I curse at you loud in my head,
But when it comes to words,
It just can't be said.

And now I'm trapped in your sorcery,
With nowhere to go.
It just keeps repeating —
The seed's been sown.

The process of life
is like knitting fabric-
A slow, tiresome art,
calling for a lot of patience.

There are ups,
there are downs,
encountered by twists and turns—
and eventually,
in the midst,
tight knots.

But that is what sews it up!

In this course,
none are left in abeyance.

Every thread is distinguished,
with its own sole purpose
in making "living" whole.

Even one plucked out—
and the garment entirely unfolds.

All of us are strands of yarn,
crafted by the hands of God
bound together by the cosmos,
to make one beautiful piece:
Life.

Sown seeds grow into crops
on a wide field.
The longevity of the crop
is not always dependent
on the time taken to nurture it.

Too much water
floods the pores,
slowly seeping out,
no longer able to reach the roots —
and the shoot eventually dies.

Other external forces,
like pests and weeds,
reduce the yield.

The health of the crop
can be improved
by frequent irrigation —
not too much, not too little.

Frequent ploughing of the field,
regular manuring, and
assurance of no interference
is more than enough
to bear fruit.

Hello fam!
I'll be posting lesser poems,
'cause I'll have lesser time.
But, I'll keep in touch!
Until then,
Goodbye!

I'm waiting for something that's not to come
Like waiting for the end of war
Like waiting for the end of greed
Like waiting for the end of corruption
Like waiting for the end of poverty
Like waiting for the end of pollution
Like waiting for the end of misery
Like waiting for the end of injustice
Like waiting for the end of this eternal cycle

Yes, I lost the old me.
Yes, I'm the only one who can get it back.
But I'm getting tired, you see...
I just wish I had someone
I could call mine.
Not to give,
But to remind,
And help me find
The old me.

The more I focus, the further you stray,
Even for a second, I want you to stay.

To escape from reality, to break free from this cell,
In this illusion of a dream, enchanted by a spell.

Every time I close my eyes, you fill darkness with light,
But the closer I reach, the more I lose sight.

You stood at the top of the stairs, reaching out to me,
Radiating a beacon of hope, I grabbed it hard with glee.

You are now a smudged painting, a lost faded sketch,
The more I try to remember, the more you look a mess.

Hues of yellow and pink, drifted in the haze,
Splashed with joy and delight, a picturesque mosaic.

It still lingers in my heart and soul,
That picture-perfect moment of a story gone cold.

Unfinished conversations
linger in the air,
dropping low—
the weight of 242 innocent souls.