Her laughter echoed, soft and rare.
A modest house, yet a kingdom to me,
With her smile as its crown, her love the decree.

I kissed her cheek as the morning began,
The kids rushed in with their plans.
Chaos wrapped in joy, a melody so sweet,

A life so simple,
Yet
A life complete, with nothing more.

We planted roses in the afternoon sun,
Watched them grow as the seasons spun.
In her arms at night, I found my rest,
A life of love, a life so blessed.

But under a moonlit, silver glow,
Her voice faltered, her words came slow.
Her eyes, once bright, grew heavy with pain,
“Maybe you should wake up now,” she said again.

The room grew silent, stars lost their gleam,
Her touch, once warm, faded like a dream.

I reached for her hand, but she slipped away.

I froze, my heart a frantic plea,
“Don’t leave, please stay, just stay with me.”
But the walls dissolved, the colors bled,
I woke in darkness, alone in my bed.

The air was cold, my breath was thin,
Reality now a violent sin.
A dream that slipped through time’s cruel sands,
A life not in my hands.

Shaking, I reached for the pen,
To relive the dream again and again.

For in these verses, she never dies,
Her laughter lives, her love still flies.
And though I wake to a world apart,
She’s inked forever into my heart.

“Strength is often just hidden sorrow.”

I write to soothe the shadows we bear,
the boy in ruins, the man in despair.

Shaped by silence, by nights without answers,
my heart learned to sway with the void’s rhythm.
So I built a bridge with my own strength,
guiding others across the darkness I once called home.

Each outstretched hand I meet, a mirror of my past,
a reflection of a boy I refuse to forget.

I give them all that I have—
hope, light,
a piece of my heart—

But when the lights dim and the world turns quiet,
I am left with the shadows they once cast.
Friendships fading to memories,
promises evaporating with the morning dew.

Still—
I let them go, with a smile they will never question.

Not because I do not care, but because I care too much.

To ask for their return would be to show my cracks,
and I fear they would see me as weak, as sorry, as a wreck.

Instead, I carry the ache alone,
longing for someone who will stay,
not because they need me,
but because they choose me,
scars and all.

Someone who sees the quiet battles I fight,
the quiet longing I hide.

I never speak these wishes,
for I know how heavy they are to bear.
I watch them walk away,
each step they take, a piece of me lost forever.

But even in this solitude, I press forward.
Not out of duty, but because I owe the boy I was.
He needs me to keep going,
to find meaning in the spaces left behind,
to believe that someday,
someone will see me—not as a savior,
but as someone worthy of saving.

And until that day comes,
I will remain the silent guardian, the quiet flame
offering light to those who wander in darkness,
as I light myself to brighten the path.

“I write only because There is a voice within me That will not be still”

Every night,
I fight myself.
One side longing to not wake up,
The other whispering of a new day.

"It's all gone now, you can rest."

Rest?—
                                                              "I have too much to do right now."

They both know there’s nothing left to fight for,
Only something to fight against.

How strange, to stand between yourself and yourself,
Throwing punches that land on your own skin,
And knowing, no matter who wins,
It is you who will lose.

Yet still—
"Maybe it is time to rest."

But then,
                                                                                    "What about parents?"

"They never cared for you to begin—why do you care?
They poured their broken dreams into you,
Their weights now yours alone to carry."

                                                    "But they are my parents— our parents."

Silence settles like dust in an empty room.

"You call them ours. When will you say myself?
When will you think of yourself?"

I hesitate.
                                                                           "I don’t know. I never did."

"Because they never let you."

I ask myself, why ?
where did it all go wrong ?
where did it all go downhill ?

maybe had I known how to speak my words, I would not have been left alone here in the middle of nowhere,

"and who do you think made that ?"

                                                   "there are voices in my head--
                                       they say it's a disease, they say you're a disease"

"they fear the truth"
"you never lived in peace, maybe you can rest in peace"

                                                   "But the world is too big to leave behind"

"what world ?-
the one that trampled on you ?
the one that left you when you needed it the most ?
the one you longed for ?
the embrace you wanted ?
the warmth you never felt ?
the world is cold, and it will soon freeze to death.
you yourself saw your own world crumble"

                                                    "and I am happy I had a world like that"

"let go of that world, let go of her-
she knows you're weak, she knows you're not right in your mind,
yet she left you, just like how everyone leaves you"

                                                   "you-
                                                        you're me and that doesn't hurt you ?"

"it hurts me as much as it hurts you,
the difference being, you dreamed it was different,
and i realized it was same"

                                                                            "are dreams not worth it ?"

"not here"

"you know our third self is writing us,
asking for help, and the world thinks it's fiction"

                   "I know, he's writing us at this moment too- he's our voice"

"we're his-
the things he never says"

                                                                 "and the things he never accepts"

There are many voices in me.
This is only a few.

The child who never got a childhood.
The son who never felt his father’s embrace.
The friend who had his trust broken.
The student who failed at life.
The writer—

Ah, the writer,
Afraid to show his work to the world.
Afraid that his family will see it too,
And instead of questioning themselves,
They’ll question the child.

i lie to myself i care only about my mother,
but who do i care about ?

"you care about no one"

                                        "NO- he's us, he's me, he cares about everyone"

"that is his mistake"

                                                                                                    "our mistake"

Years have passed.
Home is a word I’ve forgotten how to feel,
And the person fighting beside me
Has turned to shadow—
A distant memory of a self I once knew.

Iron is cold to touch.
I realize now,
It isn’t just cold—
It’s sharp.

"the blood warms you"

                                   "I know right ?
                     it's like all the warmth we gave everyone came from here"

"may you rest easy child, writer, son, student, friend"

                                                          "let's hope we do not meet next time"

and I exhale my life as I lay down in the crimson pool.

The voices fall silent,
And the fight ends.
There’s nothing left to carry,
No weight, no war.
Just the cold,
And the quiet.

A bus passed by,
A train departed.
So many people board, so many get off,
And I stand watching—
How many are alone in this crowd?
How many are not, even in an empty room?

What a difference it makes,
Being alone and being lonely.

People devoid of emotions,
People overflowing with them.

I watch, as a caravan passes by,
And I see the sufferings.

What is that God doing?

Drifting between thoughts,
Like the smoke of the cigarette I light.

What is this world we live in?

Where the father of a daughter is accused—
What did that soul do?
Where the girl who didn’t know how to walk
Is now carried on four shoulders.
How is this the world a god made?

An all-loving God?

I beg to differ. He is no god.
He is no more.
He died of shame for the deeds
His creations committed.

The old said, there is no evil mother.
Ask this to the boy
Who lost his will because of her.

They said the father protects his child.
But what of the daughter
Who needs protection from her father?

What will be?
When will it all end?

To whom it may concern:
The world is now a husk,
Burning with the hatred of people,
Their will its fuel.
To whom it may concern:
Ask that God of yours
What was the daughter’s fault?
What was the son’s mistake?

I despise that God.
I despise those who say,
“He will make everything right.”

I ask you—
Why didn’t you?

You had the power to correct.
You had what it took.
But you lacked the will.
Oh, a will to do what was right.

Maybe one step forward
Could have saved the world.

Who knows?

So I say this, in the end:
“To whom it may concern,
Your God is a shadow,
Hiding from the shame of His design.

Your world is a stage,
Where suffering plays the lead,
And love is a fleeting understudy.

And you—believers of that absent God,
You pray for salvation
From a silence that answers nothing.

Your faith builds monuments,
But they crumble under the weight of truth.
Your morals are a mask,
Hiding the rot beneath.

So, **** your God,
**** your hollow prayers,
And **** the world He abandoned.
For I see no salvation here—
Only the ashes of what could have been.”