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Rayan 5d
The morning light is
judgement day.
Like life's lingering memorial to inadequacy,
it is a death determined on slow demise.

Exacerbated exhaustion,
£s pounding your brain and taxing souls.

Bedroom shade, blissful sheets and bold coffee are
barless enclosures,
like spindles
patient for a maiden's finger.
I saw
in the streets —
dead people
walking;
(tiptoeing...)
They’re
not deceased,
nor are they
alive.

I saw
in the streets —
that desperate
hustle;
(grinding...)
They’re
not hungry,
nor are they
satisfied.

I saw
in the streets —
the filthy rich
and the poor;
(begging...)
They’re
not affluent,
nor are they
the *******.

I watched,
and wondered —
am I
one of them
too?

I saw
in the streets —
the appetite
for more;
(hungry...)
They’re
not content,
nor are they
dissatisfied.

I saw
in the streets —
dead people
walking;
(tiptoeing...)
They’re
not deceased,
nor are they
alive.

No one’s
screaming,
but I still
hear the
sirens —
As they
pick up
the dead
people
walking.
This poem reflects on the emotional numbness and unrest in everyday life. The “dead people walking” are caught between being alive and dead—lost in a cycle of desperation, hunger, and disconnection. It’s a quiet look at society’s struggles and a call to reflect on our own place within it.
Elaine C Jun 29
path forward
it leads me in circles
my head fighting my mind,
prone to panic eternally, internally
but not likened to rationality
switching, flipping
changing, eclectic
can I escape the push pull
of my push and pull Personality?
punching doorframes one minute
crying my eyes out the next
jumping off the ledge in the next 3.

I stare at the ceiling, seething, screaming
begging for an answer to the question
should I grow my wings
and stay forever seventeen?
i wrote this in a psychology lesson lol
FoxCarcass Jun 28
Am I my own desires?
Bound to jump on my instincts
My body stripped
My eyes devoid of light
The same motions we used to make
With a stranger I just met
My consciousness altered
Reality has become a dream
But when I sleep I have none
What choice do I have
When it’s between the devil and my grave?
"Real?"
"Sure, why not?"

No
purpose.
Just
stillness.

(presence...)

Drowning in it with you —
no air,
no need,
no expectations.
Just there.

Some questions
don’t
need
answers.

(just presence...)
Some moments don’t need meaning — just presence.
Asher Jun 18
have you ever seen the bugs that aren't really there?
heard whispers in silence, echoes in air?
do you ever drift as your body walks on
mind far away, but your limbs still drawn?

like a puppet pulled by invisible thread,
going through motions while thought plays dead.
a machine in flesh, with a ghost inside,
screaming no, while the hands comply.

that’s what i’m in, this vacant storm,
a hollow shell in a human form.
i don’t feel real; i’m smoke in the sky.
not even death feels like a why.

everything’s nothing, it all feels fake,
a dream you forget the moment you wake.
even heaven, even hell, seem bare
like bugs and noise that were never there.
Beat
(still)
Beat
(still)
Listen—
Can you hear it?
Life.
From nothing.

Pause—
sit
within
the
emptiness.

Let
it
become
the
bea­t
and
the
(still)

Eyes, wide with wonder.
A heart beats
to the rhythm
of tiny,
pitter-patter feet.

Beat
(still)
Beat
(still)
Listen—
Can you hear it?
Life.
From everything.
From breath. From pause. From presence. This is what I heard.
Reality is cruel.
Fate is cruel.
You were cruel.
And me—
I’m no better.

Maybe I’m just…
Empty.

Not even lonely.
Just hollow. Void. Unmoving.
Unreal.

And now— I’m alone.
So alone.

I don’t know where I am.
I don’t know who I am.
I am clueless. I am lost.

"Help me."
"Miss me."
"Love me."
"And Tell me—why?"

Maybe one day—
I’ll begin to fill myself.
Because in the end,
no one else will do it.
No one else ever would.

But for now…
I’m just—
empty.

— The End —

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
“Some loves end quietly. Others echo forever.”

It is not a cry for attention, but a whispered acknowledgment of being stripped of feeling. A poem about heartbreak, abandonment, and the quiet ruin that follows. It’s not just about losing someone—it’s about losing yourself.
ash Jun 10
the death: beginning

last night
a part of me died
and i hadn't realized it was taking its last final breath
until i finally couldn't feel it anymore

no amount of music, no amount of talking would blur it out
once again, a death in silence
i couldn't even cry or remorse for what i lost

such parts have died before
but this was my last try(i said so)
and it just hurt so much

i slept with a hollow
woke up with overwhelming numbness
feeling so, so blue

like you could hit me, and i'd cry for what of me died
not because of the pain
because it didn't even hurt—just went numb
and by that—
it hurt so much i didn’t have words

i laughed, went for a walk, listened to music, tried to talk
nothing.
it wasn't going to return.
it was gone.

the urge

like when light leaves the dying’s eyes
like when you watch someone take their final breath,
realize it's never going to come back

like a candle flickering for one last time—
the spoiled wax, of no point
like a bulb going out, its ligament being torn
like a child growing up, having seen oh so much—
they just don’t have any dreams anymore

a part of me died
and today i organize its funeral
with no watchers, no stand-bys
just like always

and to think i'd gotten anywhere
with understanding and accepting—
nowhere.
not even with people,
because they're the ones who killed me

the urge to make the call, ask—beg—why’d you **** me like that?
but just—who would even understand?

i can't even see the screen, writing this with a vision so blurry
eyes so swollen—i even breathe funny
i woke up
wanted to sleep
chose to get up
wish i could’ve slept, because i’ve been crying since

it’s been hours
i was lying curled up
begging for someone to listen
to hold—to just tell me that it’s alright
that i still can be loved like i’m whole

and the funny thing—
i’ve reached the number of deaths
no one in one lifetime could have caused them all

but i let people do it—
the same way, the same streaks


the acceptance

no hopes anymore
no positivity—
it’s just difficult
how do you suppose i can just get back up?

i taste the salt in my tears
find my nose runny

i went back to where i fought so hard to get out from
i felt it—
the death

how it went from barely breathing
to not breathing at all

how it went from staying still at the edge of hope
to crashing against all borders and falling off

how it felt like i’d been drowned, thrown, teared through, broken, dissipated
i—i just can’t

i’ll stop crying in a bit
and just go back to living
except with another part of me dead

i don’t even know how i shall mourn her death
too dumb, but she just had hopes

i’ll wipe my nose, wipe away my tears
get the ice-pack to bring down the swelling
for once drained, once it’s all out

either way, i’ll be a shell of what i’ve been all this while
a bit more hollow on the inside

this time it made no noise
the fall seemed to be never-ending
usually i heard it break, scatter—
the fragments and shards—i picked them up piece by piece

but this time—
it just fell
freefall?
i’m barely alive now

as long as this body exists
with the slightest of life on it
there will be no mourners for all the parts of me that are no more


the questioning

i’m a museum of everything i’ve ever loved
and there’s graves within me
of places where i lost a part of me

and often i don’t remember them all
but sometimes, when a situation asks one kind of mine
i step by the graveyard of my own self
and often mourn them myself

i meet people
and i give them some bits of me
ones i didn’t know existed long before i’d met the person in front of me

and then that part stays with them
they decide—often unknowingly—that it’s in their pocket
on their shoulder, in their fist
somehow never close enough to reside in their mind or heart

and yet sometimes
these parts get lost in people
watching them leave

often they’re simply handed back
sometimes they’re killed

and i need no understanding of how i end up giving them out
like handing candies to children on a halloween night
uncaring who gets which one, no favoritism
blindly trusting, i just head straight right in

always unknown what and how much they hold of mine
i didn’t even plan on trusting or attaching
and yet somehow i did
and then i’m left with nothing but the mere spirit

feeling the hollow
and the lost
how do i not cave in to death
and keep going on like a fool?
how do i live on when i'm barely alive anymore?

the dreaming

grief is sickening, like long aged sour frosting
numbness woven into it, disturbing and devasting and what not
it breathes like something real, coils in the pit of my stomach leaving my body to ache in silence, to reel, feel, and fear

sometimes i feel like i'm stitched together by borrowed light
but then i ain't any moon—perhaps a starlight?

there's parts of me made of people and moments that weren't even meant to stay
and in return all the pieces i gave of myself
so it would be right to say i'm a mismatched puzzle, always missing, never complete

this light burns, seethes, flickers, garbles, echoes
this grief doesn't scream, it lingers
like the perfume that i once used to wear
and that old teddy bear to hug
on nights when i used to feel hollowed

it wraps around my bones
around my muscles and my organs
especially my heart and my lungs

and it squeezes in tight, like a rope that's being pulled from both sides
the knot just seems to grow in size, blindness coming around my eyes

only i know it exists, this grief—
as it breathes under my laughter, only i can feel it

it splinters every single breath i try to take
ghosts all my memories, makes me want to forget
like a constant static—this pain is immense

i've got invisible bruises, oh so many—
you'd see them clearer if you were to see the way my eyes lie in their residues

the death: end

i carry my dead
like folded crushed paper notes that i don't wanna let go of
from the maybe's to the it's never happening
it seemed to be something, now it's a sad little nothing

oh so broken, everywhere i go
i offer parts of me like i'm a free use and throw tissue
but what can i do?
when they never ask for how i am—
only ask of me, how can i help?

went down the lane of thoughts—one that busied my mind and made the voices stop
they blurred, i held the blade in my hand, even my mind stuttered
you've been away and strong for so long, not again
but the pain was immense

yesterday a piece of me had died
and today i was told to

how could i possibly accept all this sorrow
and feel my heart do the free falls again and again?

i have three cuts
not proper—the blade was too weak
i tried to write 'loser'
got stuck at the e
lost myself
returned to and wondered:
perhaps i've got a thick skin

disgusts me—my own head
i still keep on wondering
why can’t i just be dead





this could go on and on
i live in a paradox
despise, wanting to still be alive
deny, wanting to die, despite my tries
a misfit in the world of those who seem to be natural
at finding their own places
i have no one to call my own
why would anyone even want me as their own?
0906-1006, yesterday was supposed to be 9, today 10 but i post it on 1106, please remind me of my death
She’s married now.
Six months have passed.
Why did she do this to me?
Things like this happen—
But how and why?

We had plans,
Dreams stitched into whispered nights:
Someday,
We’d run.
We’d escape.
We’d belong to no one but each other.

I remember the day we did it—
Left it all behind.
She cried quietly,
Worried what my parents might do.
What if they hurt themselves in grief?
What if we had made a mistake too big to undo?

She called home.
Her father cried.
“Come back,” he said,
“Where are you?
Tell me where, and I’ll come get you.”

She broke.
I watched it happen.
Maybe she remembered childhood laughs,
The smell of home-cooked food,
The weight of old memories
Tugging her back.

So I took her home.
Even though my chest screamed
Don’t let go.

Then came her wedding.
She told me she didn’t want to do it.
I begged her not to go through with it.
I cried.
I said everything.
I want nothing else but her.

But her mind—
It was elsewhere.
Fixed.
Still.

And so she married.
While I lay in bed,
Tears soaking the pillow,
Wondering:
What did I do
To deserve this?

I loved you.
You married someone else.
All our plans—
Gone.
Most of the happiest days of my life
Were with you.

Reality is cruel.
Fate is cruel.
You were cruel.
And me—
I’m no better.
Maybe I’m just…
Empty.

Not even lonely.
Just hollow.
Void.
Unmoving.
Unreal.

I make promises I won’t keep.
I talk big dreams I won’t chase.
I say I’ll change—
Then stay the same.
Naive.
Pathetic.
Unfocused.
A wanderer with no real will to move.

Sometimes I ask for advice,
But I forget it in an hour.
I live in loops.
Wake up.
Pretend.
Sleep.
Repeat.

I say I want to change,
But what do I even want?
Do I want anything?
Do I even know?
No goals.
Just daydreams.

A fantasy:
A life with no purpose—
Just food,
Peace,
Movement.
Trains, buses, faces I’ll never see again.
New places.
New cultures.
No pressure,
Just air.
Just being.

But how?
Where will I find the foods to eat?
Who will give me a place to stay?
Dreams are just dreams.
Some turn real.
Most don’t.

Then fate shows up,
Smirking.
Punches you hard in the face.
“Wake up, my boy,” it says.
“Some things just aren’t meant to be.”

Like us.

I miss you.
I love you.
I want you.
I don’t want to be without you.

But I am.

And now—
I’m alone.
So alone.
And I don’t even know
If I care anymore.

I don’t worry about family.
About future.
About anything.
I am empty.

"Help me."
"Miss me."
"Love me."
"Tell me, why?"

Why did this happen to me?
I’ve done bad things.
I’ve also done good too.
So what did I do
To deserve this ending?

I don’t know.
I am clueless.
I am lost.

I am empty.
But I still breathe.
And maybe one day—
I’ll begin to fill myself.
Because in the end,
No one else will.

But for now
I am just empty.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
“Some loves end quietly. Others echo forever.”

A poem about heartbreak, abandonment, and the quiet ruin that follows. It’s not just about losing someone—it’s about losing yourself.
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