I had a thought —
it slipped.
A line to speak —
just clipped.

I meant to say
what’s wrong,
but maybe I
came on too strong.

My chest said go,
my mouth said wait.
My throat just held
a heavy weight.

I wrote it down —
then backspaced all.
It felt too weak,
it felt too small.

I wish I could
explain this fear,
but words run dry
when you get near.

So if I stall
or start to shake —
it’s not a game,
it isn’t fake.

It’s just that when
my mind gets loud,
my voice gets lost
inside the crowd.

ओ मेरे मितवा,
मुझसे रूठो ना रे तुम।
मुझे प्यार हुआ है तुमसे,
तुझमें हो गए हैं गुम।

ख़ुदा से माँगी है एक दुआ –
मेरा प्यार तुम तक पहुँचा देना।
मिल गए तुम इस ज़िंदगी में,
तो फिर और क्या है पाना?

फ़ासले हमारे बीच के
चुभ रहे हैं अब मुझे,
बेसब्र हो गई हूँ अब
मिलने के लिए मैं तुझे।

इज़हार न कर पाई मैं
तुमसे अपने प्यार का,
बयान न कर सकी मैं
दिल से की मोहब्बत का।

इस प्यार की चुनौती में,
ऐ ख़ुदा, तुम मेरा साथ देना।
रूठा है वो मुझसे –
उसे कैसे भी है मनाना।

शब्दांना फोडणी लाऊनी
बनते आयुष्याचं भोजन,
भावनांच्या मसाल्याला
टाकायचं त्यात प्रयोजन.

कधी रागाचा लाल खरडा,
तर कधी आनंदाची खीर,
थोडं मजेदार आंबट लोणचं,
त्यात रुसलेल्या रसगुल्याची भिरभिर.

एक कौतुकाचा लाडू, अन
थोडी लहरी असलेली कोशिंबीर,
त्यात समाधानाच्या भातावर
आमटी बसलेली गंभीर.

भावनांच्या या जेवणाने
भरतं ताट आयुष्याचं,
पण सर्व पदार्थ खाण्याआधी
प्यावं पाणी प्रेमाचं.

I am not the owner of my words—
not the master of my quotes,
nor the crafter of my stanza,
nor the painter of my verses.

I am simply the extension of the pen—
a vessel of expression, granted the freedom
to speak what aches beneath the skin.

But take away the artist who holds the pen,
or take away the pen itself—and the voice
of the artist, soon becomes the pen instead.
Words find a way to bleed through silence.

No matter how noble your intent,
to silence one’s voice is to sever the
soul’s right to breathe.

And still— they will return,
stronger than before; they will fight
for their word— words that once gave
them armour, and the pen, a weapon.

Not to draw blood—
but to cut through blindness.
A violent expression, yes—
but born of peace, wild but tamed,
structured but never caged.
Because there is freedom in every
word, written or said.

i think
this is perhaps the first time
i came and picked up my laptop,
sat in front of the blank screen,
with the pointer blinking back at me—
and i realized i had so much to write.

about how the world was being unfair,
of how i was being lied to,
of how i was all by myself all again—
and that's what they wanted:
to isolate me after attachment.

and i don't know,
it didn't hurt the way it used to.
i relapsed, kinda—
but i realized i'd healed much more.
and even though it's surprising,
i just don't know how to pen it down.

i was watching the recent season of ginny and georgia,
and i found quotes and expressions and scenes that i related to—
like *******, like poetry is supposed to be form of self-expressing.
but i never knew how to do it in the first place.

and i've gotten better, i know—
but i lie on my bed,
and something's just so poetic about lying in the dark
with posters on my walls,
with pictures telling me to not give up,
to write, to be creative—
and i do all these things just to stop thinking at all.

like, i have my hair open
and it's the second day since i washed them.
i'd changed the day schedule—
it seems kinda nice, like not a repetition for once.
and my mum's showering,
i'm in my room,
the air conditioning is on—
the heat outside is unbearable.

i received a text from a random person asking for my socials,
and i'm perhaps the first in this generation
to not use a social.

i bathed my bunny today,
she's kinda angry at the fact—
but i know she'll round that. she always does.
she just doesn't like water,
but she needs it.

like i don't like to live and be surrounded
by people who don't want me,
but i have to fake it.

that's kinda simple.
but it's hard to accept—
like the brutal kinda truths that seem to reflect my own insides
and i just have to let them.

and every time i look into the mirror,
i imagine who i can be.
but to be that person,
to be the me in the mirror—
it's just— i don't have a way yet laid out in front of me.

i've got no prompts today—
perhaps i'll ask for some, look around and always return
to write back in here.
but sometimes i wanna write just nothing at all.

like write it out,
but it's about nothing—
just things that are so normal
that they don't even seem to matter.

you won't see someone writing about breathing
until they know the lack of it during a panic attack.
you won't see someone writing about a heartbreak
unless they've been through that.

and they could write from the experiences of others—
but first, you have to experience.

and i don't know,
i'm perhaps getting somewhere—
but that isn't even necessary, at all?
right?
like, i can exist,
and i don't have to make a big point out of it— all times.

i can be breathing,
be listening,
be wanting something but not knowing what i want exactly.
and i could be just in the zone of comfort
without having any comfort at all.

but it's just— hard to define, to put in words.

i had no thoughts when i came here,
but right now i type,
and i watch myself type,
and i see the words coming to life
and i want to keep going on and on and on and on
until the cycle just never stops
and i can keep on speaking and speaking
and somehow get it all out—
all that i've felt, or all that i keep feeling.

and i could write my past down
but i don't have any memory unless it's triggered—
i'm just— like a total black space
with no stars either.

and i'm running out of metaphors
and i'm afraid that i won't have this writing skill of mine.
that's kinda one of the fears.

the second is to show people i truly hear—
and see, and watch as they go ahead
and do the things that will have me lost—
far, far away from them.

and i wonder if they even see then—
that i can be the one they need,
but to be someone that i need,
myself, with me—

i just read a quote that said
"life's easier if you have even just one good friend,"
and i have had— one of those, always and now and then—
but i kinda seem to always lose it all.

and that's alright,
because somehow, you find a way—
but i can't still go to these good friends of mine,
and talk to them—

another thought—
if you can't find a reason to be,
become the reason yourself.

just got a random thought that could be a big quote
and now i'm being gaslighted—
is this thought my own
or did my brain pick it up from somewhere
and threw it in the open for more?

poems don't always have to have an ending—
well, they do.
but that's what i tell myself
when i can't find an ending suitable enough
to fit in the already written words.

and then i realize,
the infamous line from the series i'm currently watching:

"listen or don't, i don't care—
that's life right?
things don't always have happy endings.
or even endings.
it's not fair like that.
we're just left hanging
and we don't know what's gonna happen.
we don't even know what really did happen.
so all we can do is decide to just not care."

"i think you do care.
when you wrote that poem, you wanted an ending.
you crave resolution.
you want things to make sense.
and sometimes they don't.
and that frustrated you,
so you frustrated us, the listeners.
you pushed us away.
oh and that's the name of the poem by the way,
'ending'."

Thought cried expectantly
wishing for an other Chance
in sundering limelight

When did children lose their love of learning?

When they were told to conform,
To forget their being,
To discard interests, agency, creativity

My own complicity
In the stifling of identity

Authenticity, a digression of the self,
A dissolution of swarming
Complexities

When did I gain my love of learning?

The burning crucible
Of curiosity

Set aflame by rejection of conformity

Constraints, curriculum, crushing expectations
and a world disintegrating
fires of digressions

When is conformity an expression of authenticity?

When is authenticity just another form of conformity?