These times apart seem such a strain,
a heartfelt emotional loss;
But now we must think of the common good,
and fulfill a worthwhile cause.

People wracked with pain and suffering,
an ominous sign for retreat;
Yet just when we most need intimacy,
this intensity bears repeating.

The smartest move is not to move,
and remain inside for awhile;
We'll see one another soon enough,
when powerful sources quash the fire.

Still our minds take a daily route,
through webs of life's complexities;
And wonderment will fill the ache,
if hope can set our spirits free.

It's deleterious and insidious

too much positive thinking

a mantra that borders on the tedious

often oblivious of true meaning-



I don't strive but am I lacking?

( I never aimed at being glorious)

I fear morality might be dying

when positive thinking takes the reign--it's perilous!

My grandpa seldom spoke

into his eyes as a child I looked

when I grew up to the past I took

only then his pain I understood

I'm laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling. You're staying in my head, and I can't shake these feelings.

My every word and deed, confesses that you are my need; love has sown her seed, and from it roots my heart bleeds.

I'm laying in my bed, while you're laying in my head, and so this tragedy begins. Might someone please rid Shakespeare of his pen, and let this story come to its end?

The tempest winds are blowing strong, I am slowing falling down; I feel that I am suffocating underneath water, but I can't seem to drown.

My heart can't get any sleep, causes it speeds up its beat, when I tell you that I love you... but you don't repeat.

I am staring at the ceiling, imagining that you are staring back, and for now... I am content with that.

Why is poetry dying
when we still have the gift?
If we still have water
then we still have a ship.
We can sail to the places
these words take us.
We are still shaken
by the words that make us.
Why should we let poetry die
when there is so much to explore?
If only people read it
and discovered more.

The emptiness in my eyes,
The truth behind my lies,
The fall before my rise,
And the goodbyes;

It scares me.

The dark beneath my skin,
The light within my sins,
The voice that loudly sings,
And my broken wings;

It scares me.

The wounds I can't heal,
The pain I can't feel,
The loss I can't deal,
And when I am real;

It scares me.

The silence in my little talks,
The stillness in my moonlit walks,
The thought of separate ways,
And my numbered days;

It scares me.

The demons under my bed,
The words spinning in my head,
The blood in my sweat,
And my cold breath;

It scares me.

-Paras Bajaj #PoetrybyParas
Instagram : @mr.parasbajaj

i think that the most damaged people in the world
are the kindest
and the softest

because they know
that scabs can be picked
and you can bleed