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Rohidul Rifat Jun 28
She walks unlit between the crowd,
A hush beneath the voices loud.
The hours bruise her open hands,
Bartering breath for small demands.

No desk, no page, no teacher's name—
Just lessons scraped from soot and flame.
Her dreams, like threadbare hems, unwind—
Too delicate for those half-blind.

They do not see the shape she bears—
A rootless bloom that learns to care
For scraps of sky, for drifting sound,
For silence in a world unbound.

The mirror offers her no script,
No birthright carved, no title gripped.
Yet in her chest, a slow-burned spark—
A vow that glows beneath the dark.

Outside, the banyan dares to stay,
Its limbs a home for those astray.
She sees herself in trunk and leaf—
A quiet spine, a growing grief.

What voice is hers, if none reply?
What name survives when none ask why?
Still she persists, unknown, unseen—
A bloom that breaks through concrete green.
This poem is for the girls and women whose brilliance blooms beyond notice—those who learn from hardship, grow without guidance, and carry strength in silence. The Unseen Bloom is a tribute to the quiet, root-deep resilience that refuses to be erased.
Have you ever felt unseen, yet still deeply alive inside? What “small sparks” have helped you keep going in silence? I’d love to hear your reflections—especially on the last stanza and what it evokes for you.
A greenish wonder; wrapped in white,
It gave a floral scent of sublime delight.
Plucked from life; it held a belle desire,
There it held the glamorous shire.

The purpose was lost; a withered corpse,
The vase remained; a ceramic coarse.
Depraved of soul; an empty gloom,
There was a vase in my room.
The clock in my head ticks counterclockwise,
As my sense of time then loses its hands.
Their shadows start lapping the room’s empty walls.
It’s then that I start to think I understand.

Some Familiar faces, they just looked my way,
But when I look back, I see the backs of their heads.
I know i could explain things I've never seen,
But I'd have to use words that no one ever says.

A name intrudes whispers and escapes my lips,
Of someone I know, but don’t know that I know.
I was planning for things happening yesterday,
With a mind that cannot even perceive tomorrow.

My clothes are there, folded in layers of my truth.
My methods are organized by my own confusion.
The knot that lives in between my heart and my throat
With inhales it tightens but it never really loosens.

To find what is real, i have now learned to search
In The silence that lives underneath my illusions.
Attempts to reshape some clarity from what
I’m sure are just faulty misleading delusions.

A word exists stuck on the tip of my tongue.
My name is not something I'll ever write down.
I’m remembered only by unknown forgetful tongues
Who’ve not ever spoken my name or your name aloud.

I once took a zoomed in picture of my eye.
It resembled that of amphibians or snakes.
I Drew myself as a person, but whole again,
But the person just instantly burst into flames.

I painted a picture of what you'd look like in heaven.
But the next day I noticed it was all rearranged.
I still don't know how I can feel so at home.
Inside this dream that feels so morbidly strange.
Soul Jun 28
Some might
scream at you
seeing their
worst pest,
A few might
love you as
their favourite
loving pet.—
Your arrogance
roams every
black inch
on earth.
But still,
for some, you
are their the most
delicious snack.—
Pride do fall,
right?
Decided to start with an unexpected topic, to express the nature of pride...
Harry Jun 28
As I sit here
Staring at the submit button
I think of the times that I couldn't even
Start
A wave of emotion overcomes me
As I remember where
I once
Started
The clock ticks midnight
The link
Closes
And I am left
In a confused state
Of nostalgia for what once
Was
Soul Jun 28
(to the one that ticks backwards)

Leaving the future
in a locked
wooden
chest,—
You dive into
the memories;
Deep;
Dark.
You seek only
birth.
But why?
Why
do you
run away from
death?
If you fear what's ahead, there is no path for you ahead...
mysterie Jun 28
i feel
like im
unfinished --
almost like
my life is a story
only half-told
with too many
blank pages
left.
date wrote: 28/6
Veera Jun 28
Someday the glass will be half-empty
And you’d get happy about that,
Cause yesterday was not so grateful,
The future, well, has not yet passed.

To see a glass already is a victory  
When you were struggling to have a sip.
A wandering eye, obstructing vision lately,
Somehow is focused, fighting to see clear.  

There are no words that could describe it,
There is no person who could really tell.
The glass could be half full and empty,
At least it’s real to begin with for today.
My reinterpretation of the idiom "half full or half empty glass".
21.09.24
Soul Jun 28
Wearing a
white gown,
decorated with
Lotuses,
you dance
in the midst of
the distant meadows
like a new-born
petal.
But, in the depths,
where bones uncover,
etched to my black heart,
a red handprint,
you left.—
Will you
ever leave me
in peace?
Be honest. Don't fall into traps. Cause if you do, it is hard to erase the scars...
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