Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 6d
Parisha
He never knew the storms he calmed,
With just a glance, a laugh, a smile.
He never knew how deep I sank,
Until his light reached me, quiet, and kind.

Last night, sleep refused to come —
I waited, stared, held back a sigh.
Just hoping he might say a word,
Or send a sign, a soft reply.

But morning came with empty air,
He didn’t show — and I just stared.
At benches, books, the teacher’s voice,
While colours drained from everywhere.

He never knew how much it hurt,
To sit and smile, pretend, obey —
When all I wished was just to see
His silly grin light up the day.

He never knew, and maybe won’t,
How much he helped me breathe again.
Unbelievable! Someone whome I've never talked to-
Still in his silence,I found my strength.

You never knew you're the only star
My sky still chases every night —
Because no other light has ever
Matched the warmth you gave so right.

You never knew, you still don’t see —
You’re a soul I can’t replace.
Not because I need your love...
But because you gave me grace.

—Parisha
 6d
Parisha
Once a day, thoughts of QUITTING,
It was ages before or is it just me who aged?
Hearing whispers—
"Oh girl! Don't overthink, you're just a child."
But... how did this girl learnt to feel this way?

Back in days, this messy, inactive Angel…
She made mistakes and advancements at the same time.
Following her years with Covid-19,
Grew an ache of anger with a belief that—
The world was completely against her.

Then that day, when tears fell…
Wait—were those the thoughts of the overthinker me again?
And that was the time I recognised
Myself, with numerous talents to shine.

Today, an orator, poet, painter—she transformed.
But never gained the courage to own the title of best person.
She changed me, my young self, but…
Why is it me writing all these things as a memory of guilt again?
Maybe… it’s just me who aged—
Not my guilt.

-Parisha
Something you can guess i think... Well, it's about me if anyone's wondering
 May 20
Parisha
Every now and then I wonder,
Is this world ever connected?
With all those parallels, it makes me amazed—
Are those meant to be forgiven in this way?

I pity the young, staring at themselves on pieces,
How must they have spent their days?
Those birthdays, those meetups, those laughs—
Are those meant to be forgiven in this way?

Do we grow to live or live to grow?
How the world has changed from words
By foreplay, from growing to gaining...
Maybe all these mean some volume, some intensity.
But I, here, writing all these words—will they ever reach with printing grace?
Maybe, I guess, these things are meant to be forgiven in this way.

—Parisha

— The End —