Piyush_ - Hello Poetry

The seat I look for is vacant. Vengeance, guilt, dream nothing left. Now I suffer, now I dress, A shirt of emptiness. Ambitious child, was I? Anger to **** did I? Egoistic person, am I? No love, no joy left inside. Deep into the lake, I see a face, Clean as a mirror, Guilty as a prosecutor. Vacant, a seat I see. No colour, no beauty. It's the window Next to me.

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Dec 9, 2025

Dec 9, 2025 at 11:07 AM UTC

VACANT

The seat I look for is vacant. Vengeance, guilt, dream nothing left. Now I suffer, now I dress, A shirt of emptiness. Ambitious child, was I? Anger to **** did I? Egoistic person, am I? No love, no joy left inside. Deep into the lake, I see a face, Clean as a mirror, Guilty as a prosecutor. Vacant, a seat I see. No colour, no beauty. It's the window Next to me.

16

Visit the garden of your dove, Kindly visit the grave of your love. Things aren't right in this play, A mere admiration will make your day? How to find, what to write? In this generation, what is bright? True passion and dedication, How can you find it through desperation? You expect, you hope, but never get The gift of her reciprocation. What causes you to despair, Is the girl, of your admiration. Themes of love are now gray, What choice do you have? Other than to pray. Dust till dawn, you say, Dawn till dust, is your day. A true story isn't always fine, Yet you believed cause it was mine. The beauty of work, is always dime. Imagination is the cage of my mind, Don't repress your feelings, Don't be so confined, I've lost forever, I've resigned.

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Oct 31, 2025

Oct 31, 2025 at 9:31 AM UTC

A Garden, And A Cage

Visit the garden of your dove, Kindly visit the grave of your love. Things aren't right in this play, A mere admiration will make your day? How to find, what to write? In this generation, what is bright? True passion and dedication, How can you find it through desperation? You expect, you hope, but never get The gift of her reciprocation. What causes you to despair, Is the girl, of your admiration. Themes of love are now gray, What choice do you have? Other than to pray. Dust till dawn, you say, Dawn till dust, is your day. A true story isn't always fine, Yet you believed cause it was mine. The beauty of work, is always dime. Imagination is the cage of my mind, Don't repress your feelings, Don't be so confined, I've lost forever, I've resigned.

24

A person desires his life, To be lived outside time. How much more will he lie? He asks questions, he asks for a knife. A world of hope, a world of life, Will they give, will he buy? Dust till dawn is your time, How to grow, how to die? A word to write, a letter to die, Thoughts are given, the curse is mine. Fake emotions, the faces are dry, How to choose, when to cry? Choose your crime, your guilt now, Why is my love often stuck in the market of beauty? Do this, do that, keep yourself busy, Fulfil the hungers of the greedy.

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Sep 2, 2025

Sep 2, 2025 at 3:12 PM UTC

Choices

A person desires his life, To be lived outside time. How much more will he lie? He asks questions, he asks for a knife. A world of hope, a world of life, Will they give, will he buy? Dust till dawn is your time, How to grow, how to die? A word to write, a letter to die, Thoughts are given, the curse is mine. Fake emotions, the faces are dry, How to choose, when to cry? Choose your crime, your guilt now, Why is my love often stuck in the market of beauty? Do this, do that, keep yourself busy, Fulfil the hungers of the greedy.

16

You write, you dream, you paint her face, But words won’t earn a lover’s grace. What a pitiful way — It isn’t your day. More and more, You wait, For the one tied to your fate. Then comes your hate, For the ones where you made mistakes. Mistakes of your life, Mistakes for your life. Yes, you were kind, In her heart, in her mind. Alike or not, the faces were nine: One with a knife, Two were blind, One struck three times with the knife. Two were on site, Three — undercover police, Four unknown, dressed in white, Two recorded the tale of that night. This is your poem’s rhyme — Yeah, you didn’t pay much mind.

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Jul 23, 2025

Jul 23, 2025 at 11:03 AM UTC

You Didn’t Pay Much Mind

You write, you dream, you paint her face, But words won’t earn a lover’s grace. What a pitiful way — It isn’t your day. More and more, You wait, For the one tied to your fate. Then comes your hate, For the ones where you made mistakes. Mistakes of your life, Mistakes for your life. Yes, you were kind, In her heart, in her mind. Alike or not, the faces were nine: One with a knife, Two were blind, One struck three times with the knife. Two were on site, Three — undercover police, Four unknown, dressed in white, Two recorded the tale of that night. This is your poem’s rhyme — Yeah, you didn’t pay much mind.

23

Patience, A little more patience. Wait through the days, With no expectations. Dedication, Followed by frustration. I live in imagination, Devoid of reciprocation. Communication, To sort the relation. Before you fade, Into silent celebration. Desperation, Still the hesitation. Locked in forever, In this realization.

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Jun 26, 2025

Jun 26, 2025 at 3:03 AM UTC

A little more patience

Patience, A little more patience. Wait through the days, With no expectations. Dedication, Followed by frustration. I live in imagination, Devoid of reciprocation. Communication, To sort the relation. Before you fade, Into silent celebration. Desperation, Still the hesitation. Locked in forever, In this realization.

16

A heart that desires nothing, Now loses on empty evening, It loses everything. Brick by brick, It breaks you completely. Write it quick, And leave the world discreetly. Easy you go there, Where nothing is pleasing, A disturbed mind — strangely appeasing. Bigger the talk, lesser the thing, The last wish could be a walk, Or it could be a ring. Answer the questions, Play it with skills. What is obsession? Don't count all the kills. Far and far it is — The world you miss. Rise and rise, Yet you don’t climb. The harder the fall, The harsher will be the rhyme.

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Jun 15, 2025

Jun 15, 2025 at 12:10 PM UTC

Empty evening

A heart that desires nothing, Now loses on empty evening, It loses everything. Brick by brick, It breaks you completely. Write it quick, And leave the world discreetly. Easy you go there, Where nothing is pleasing, A disturbed mind — strangely appeasing. Bigger the talk, lesser the thing, The last wish could be a walk, Or it could be a ring. Answer the questions, Play it with skills. What is obsession? Don't count all the kills. Far and far it is — The world you miss. Rise and rise, Yet you don’t climb. The harder the fall, The harsher will be the rhyme.

23

Happy or sad, You play the character, Until you're completely dead. Ponder on it, Live your life around it. The courage to speak of it Doesn't come from a beautiful place. Yet you stayed inside that Uncomfortable dress. You think of her the whole day, Still, you choose the mask When she appears in your way. How sad it is— You often cross her path, Yet never look at her face. Instead, you focus only On her shoelaces. Still, your character smiles Through this pitiful day. Lies and lies you say— What good has your character Done till this day? “He never desires everything, He never asks for anything.” His wishes remain unwritten, Yet his prayers are often heard.

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Jun 9, 2025

Jun 9, 2025 at 3:07 AM UTC

Untill you're dead

Happy or sad, You play the character, Until you're completely dead. Ponder on it, Live your life around it. The courage to speak of it Doesn't come from a beautiful place. Yet you stayed inside that Uncomfortable dress. You think of her the whole day, Still, you choose the mask When she appears in your way. How sad it is— You often cross her path, Yet never look at her face. Instead, you focus only On her shoelaces. Still, your character smiles Through this pitiful day. Lies and lies you say— What good has your character Done till this day? “He never desires everything, He never asks for anything.” His wishes remain unwritten, Yet his prayers are often heard.

26

A blue-feathered bird, Sitting on my shelf, Tells me a story Not found in itself. Of a poet and dead, Of words that he said. The poet was poor, Only had words to pour. The dead was once alive, She was the king’s only tribe. They met in shade, No eyes, no blade. He spoke in rhyme, She gave him time. No crown, no gold— Just hands to hold. The king knew The poet’s affection— For him, his daughter Was no mere connection. He ordered, “Don’t **** don’t spill the blood, Write some words from the mud. Hang him in the night, When the moon will rise— The poet’s will should die.” She cried, Yet they beat him Till the night. The story, never whole, Remains told By the blue-feathered bird.

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Jun 4, 2025

Jun 4, 2025 at 12:17 PM UTC

A blue feathered bird

A blue-feathered bird, Sitting on my shelf, Tells me a story Not found in itself. Of a poet and dead, Of words that he said. The poet was poor, Only had words to pour. The dead was once alive, She was the king’s only tribe. They met in shade, No eyes, no blade. He spoke in rhyme, She gave him time. No crown, no gold— Just hands to hold. The king knew The poet’s affection— For him, his daughter Was no mere connection. He ordered, “Don’t **** don’t spill the blood, Write some words from the mud. Hang him in the night, When the moon will rise— The poet’s will should die.” She cried, Yet they beat him Till the night. The story, never whole, Remains told By the blue-feathered bird.

32

The words you write, you're going blind, You hide away, leave light behind. Your world’s gone dull, it lacks a shine, How much of truth will you define? You beg for answers from above, But guilt is not what gods are made of. You did it all, don’t mask, don’t fake — Refuse the lie, or let it break. Be kind, be bold, begin to see, The mirror’s cracked — the fault is me. You bury night to chase the time, But still the sun will rise at nine. You found the page but lost the pen, You try to start and stop again. You call it luck, you hope it shows, But talent hides where no one knows. You write, you dream, you paint her face, But words won’t earn a lover’s grace. No rhyme can pull her into crime, No line can cross that sacred line. Still here you stand, a voice confined, A life half-lived, a heart resigned. Inside this shell, thoughts twist and wind — This is your cursed poet’s mind.

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Jun 4, 2025

Jun 4, 2025 at 11:42 AM UTC

Poet's Mind

The words you write, you're going blind, You hide away, leave light behind. Your world’s gone dull, it lacks a shine, How much of truth will you define? You beg for answers from above, But guilt is not what gods are made of. You did it all, don’t mask, don’t fake — Refuse the lie, or let it break. Be kind, be bold, begin to see, The mirror’s cracked — the fault is me. You bury night to chase the time, But still the sun will rise at nine. You found the page but lost the pen, You try to start and stop again. You call it luck, you hope it shows, But talent hides where no one knows. You write, you dream, you paint her face, But words won’t earn a lover’s grace. No rhyme can pull her into crime, No line can cross that sacred line. Still here you stand, a voice confined, A life half-lived, a heart resigned. Inside this shell, thoughts twist and wind — This is your cursed poet’s mind.

24

Evening it is. Already? No work, no **** — Just silence. I'm writing. Can't take the risk, Yeah, I’m scared. No pressure, no disc, Yet I’m prepared. To work, I must, Though my thoughts Gather dust. Finding work — Yeah, I’m berserk. Not skilled, Just the will To fight. I’m waiting. Yeah, there are great things, Just not for me. But then — There is she, In my memories.

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Jun 2, 2025

Jun 2, 2025 at 9:03 AM UTC

Not for me

Evening it is. Already? No work, no **** — Just silence. I'm writing. Can't take the risk, Yeah, I’m scared. No pressure, no disc, Yet I’m prepared. To work, I must, Though my thoughts Gather dust. Finding work — Yeah, I’m berserk. Not skilled, Just the will To fight. I’m waiting. Yeah, there are great things, Just not for me. But then — There is she, In my memories.

24