One morning,
The mountains resigned.
They handed in their notice
to the sky and said,
"We are tired of standing still."
The rivers laughed.
The trees thought it was a joke.
The clouds,
who never trusted mountains anyway,
simply drifted by.
But at dawn the next day,
the mountains were gone.
One was seen
walking across a desert,
carrying snow on its shoulders.
Another sat beside the sea,
listening to waves
it had spent millions of years
watching from afar.
A small mountain
climbed a larger one
just to see
what the view was like.
The world panicked.
Maps became fiction.
Compasses lost confidence.
Geography teachers
had nervous breakdowns.
But the mountains?
They had never been happier.
For ages,
everyone admired their strength.
No one asked
whether they wished to go somewhere.
And isn't that strange?
How often we praise things
for enduring.
For remaining.
For staying exactly where they are.
As if movement
were a kind of failure.
As if roots
were more noble than wings.
Years later,
when the mountains finally returned,
they were different.
Their cliffs carried stories.
Their valleys held laughter.
Their stones smelled faintly
of oceans and distant forests.
And when people asked
Why had they left,
The mountains replied:
"Because even giants deserve
to discover what lies
beyond the horizon."
Then they stood still again
not because they had to,
but because they had chosen to.
3d ago
May 31, 2026 at 11:38 AM UTC
I wrote a poem for you once.
Not about love,
at least not the kind people speak about openly.
It was about your strength.
The way you carried storms inside you
and still spoke gently to the world
as if pain had never touched your voice.
I wrote about your patience,
about the strange courage you had
to survive things you never explained.
You looked ordinary to everyone else,
but I had seen the weight behind your silence.
I knew how hard you fought
just to remain kind.
So I wrote for you
like words could become shelter.
Like if I arranged enough hope together,
your broken days would finally heal.
I told you
you could shake the world someday.
That your mind was too bright
to stay hidden behind sadness.
That even your scars
looked like proof of survival,
not weakness.
And while writing,
I quietly believed
That maybe the poem would save us too.
I thought if I kept encouraging you,
kept reminding you of your worth,
then maybe one day
We would stop hurting each other.
Maybe broken things
could still learn how to breathe again.
But time has a cruel way
of finishing stories
without asking the writers.
Now the year has changed.
The conversations have ended.
And you no longer belong
to the part of my life
where your name felt like home.
Yet sometimes
I still remember that poem.
I remember sitting with all my emotions open,
trying to turn pain into something beautiful for you.
Trying to love you
through encouragement,
through faith,
through words.
And perhaps that is the saddest part of all
I wrote a poem telling you
that you could conquer the world,
while quietly losing mine.
Still, I do not regret it.
Because even now,
after endings, after distance, after silence,
I think the poem was honest.
You were extraordinary to me once.
May 27
May 27, 2026 at 12:30 AM UTC
Do you remember that voice across the street?
I shouted your name
and confessed my love.
Do you remember the colour of my clothes?
I barely remember mine,
but I remember yours—
a white shirt
and blue jeans.
Do you remember the weather, my dear?
The sky was waiting for rain,
and the wind carried music
from somewhere far away.
Do you remember the date?
I do.
Some moments never leave us.
And do you remember me, my dear?
The one who stood there,
heart trembling,
loving you loudly
while the whole world stayed silent.
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 1:12 PM UTC
A lie
never arrives loudly.
It comes softly,
dressed like comfort,
spoken in familiar voices,
with eyes that still know
how to look honest.
At first,
it feels harmless
just a small crack
hidden beneath paint.
But lies grow.
They sit between conversations,
turn warmth into distance,
and make people question
their own memories.
The cruelest lies
are not always the biggest ones.
Sometimes they are simple things like,
“I’m fine.”
“I never meant to hurt you.”
“I’ll stay.”
And somehow,
those are the words
that leave the deepest scars.
Because truth may hurt once,
but a lie
keeps hurting
every time you remember
you believed it.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 11:31 PM UTC
You were never meant
to carry the weight
of becoming flawless.
Still, you stood in front of the mirrors
counting every crack within yourself
as if broken things
could never be loved.
But look closely
The moon survives with scars,
old books survive with folded pages,
and hearts survive
even after being left unheard.
There is something deeply human
about unfinished people.
The way they hesitate while speaking,
the way their hands shake
before holding someone else’s pain,
the way they smile
even after difficult days.
Perfection is cold.
It does not tremble,
does not heal,
does not understand.
But imperfect people—
they learn softness
from every wound.
They become gentle
because life once wasn’t gentle with them.
And maybe that is enough.
Maybe being human
was never about shining without flaws,
but about continuing to love,
to try,
to stay kind
while carrying all those invisible storms inside.
So if you ever feel incomplete,
remember this—
some souls are beautiful
not because they are perfect,
but because they remained good
in a world
that gave them every reason not to.
May 17
May 17, 2026 at 8:57 AM UTC
I cry...I love...I want peace...I don't know how it feels...
I tremble...I scream....I want answers...for all the unease...
If there is any power...I hope you hear...I know that you care...
I know that you care...
Oh! Time, please be slow...for I want to know...my answers and prayers...
And tell the universe...that you also care...
I hope you care...
I wish you care....
Do you care?
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 9:31 AM UTC
Mother,
if heaven still listens to women like you,
then please—
do not pray for me tonight.
I am too stained
to stand beside your faith.”
The boy you raised
still lives somewhere inside me,
hidden beneath trembling hands,
powdered nights,
bloodshot eyes,
and the smell of sins
I never meant to commit.
I was not born cruel, Ma.
I was just weak
at the wrong time.
One poison became another,
one escape became a cage,
and slowly,
I stopped recognizing
the monster wearing my face.
That night—
God, that night—
I swear upon your name
I never wanted anyone to die.
My mind was drowning,
my soul was numb,
and the devil inside the drugs
held the knife tighter than I did.
Now every night
I hear a heartbeat stopping
inside my dreams.
Every morning
I wake up guilty
for still being alive.
This prison is not these walls, Ma.
It is the memory.
It is surviving
after destroying a life
I can never return.
And the worst punishment?
Knowing your son
became the reason
another mother cries herself to sleep.
Sometimes I press my shaking hands together
and whisper apologies
to a God
who no longer answers me.
But when I whisper,
“Ma…”
my voice breaks differently.
Because you loved me
before the world taught me
how to ruin myself.
If I could return to you
as that innocent boy again,
I would.
I would trade every breath,
every vein poisoned with addiction,
every nightmare,
just to sit beside you once more
while you ran your fingers through my hair
and called me good.
But now I live in a healing hell—
a place where I am punished
not by chains,
but by regret.
And every day
I try to become human again
inside a body
that remembers how to destroy
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 3:09 AM UTC
When I was born into her world,
She became a clown just to make me smile.
When I was a little girl learning to walk ahead,
She became the hand that never let me fall.
When I first held a pencil in trembling fingers,
She became the mind that guided my thoughts.
Whenever life rose before me like steep hills,
She became the strength that carried me through.
She is not merely my kin..
She is my friend, my hope, my shelter, my path.
She is the carnation blooming within my heart,
Whose radiant colours forever blossom in my soul.
She was specially chosen by God for me,
To shape me into a woman of wisdom and grace
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 12:07 AM UTC
I kept praying over ruins
as if broken things still returned
to the hands that loved them enough.
My eyes were swollen with hope,
my hands trembling with desperation,
and still I whispered to God,
“just one more chance…
please let this survive.”
I called it a phase.
I called it bad timing....
I called it everything
except the end.....
And then one winter evening,
a message arrived
cold enough to stop my heartbeat:
“There is no future left between us.”
In that moment,
something inside me collapsed so quietly
I swear I felt death brush past my soul.
The world blurred.
Voices faded.
My body was alive,
but I could not feel myself in it anymore.
People say heartbreak hurts,
but this was grief
the kind that buries you
while you are still breathing.
And even now,
after all this healing,
I still remember that winter day
like a nightmare
my heart never fully woke up from....
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 1:22 PM UTC
Life was different then.
Whenever it rained,
I felt your presence somewhere near the window across my street.
And I would wait for hours,
pretending I wasn’t waiting at all.
Sometimes you looked happy.
Sometimes tired.
Sometimes lost in thoughts I could never reach.
And sometimes,
you looked at me.
The moment your eyes met mine,
I would disappear behind the door like a child caught stealing sunlight.
Then slowly, carefully,
I’d look again.
I was younger then.
My heart did not know the difference
between admiration and love.
Maybe that is why I kept calling it love.
I did not want grand confessions.
I only wanted your presence to stay.
Forever felt possible in those small moments.
It was beautiful then.
Soft. Untouched. Incomplete.
And though the story never became a story at all,
I still remember the red book in your hands
as if that memory belongs to another lifetime I once lived.
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 10:46 AM UTC