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Brave to ask.

   Wise to listen.

      Inspired to act.

         Transformation.
I came across the concept of 'dormant questions' - at least I think that was the term used.  Questions someone may be aware of that they should ask, but they do not have the courage or the ability to articulate.
Questions that have the potential for life changing answers.  
They say admiting you have a problem is the first step.
Maybe admitting that you have a Question can work in the same way.
So take a moment. Is there a shelved question that has been gathering dust? See if you're ready to lift it down and dust it off.
I'll be doing the same.
Thea Mar 28
Why is it that sorrow paints the most vivid pictures?
That agony sculpts statues from cold marble, chiseling grief into perfection,
while joy slips through my fingers like water,
unable to hold its form long enough to be carved into eternity?

I have seen novels woven from suffering,
each word a bruise pressed into the page,
and I have sung along to symphonies of heartbreak,
where violins wail in a language older than time.
Yet, when I am happy, truly happy,
the words dissolve before they reach the paper,
the melody hums itself into silence.

Perhaps misery lingers because it demands to be known.
It stains the mind like ink, like red wine on white linen,
a blot that will not be scrubbed away.
Joy is light, ephemeral—a sunbeam through a cracked window,
and when it leaves, it does so without a trace.

Is it that in darkness we see light most clearly?
That when we fall into the abyss,
we can finally measure the sky’s distance?
Or is it simply that suffering forces us inward,
makes us historians of our own wounds,
and from that catalog of aches, we shape something immortal?

I wonder if humanity was made to remember pain,
if at our core we are creatures of longing,
forever chasing ghosts of what we lost,
of what we never even had.
If we were made for joy, we would hold onto it,
bottle it, sing it into permanence.
But joy fades, and grief carves.
One is water, the other is stone.

And so I wonder—
what does that make us?
First poem after being in a slump
Let me know what you think
Wondy Mar 27
Feeling can come and go right?

So why am i in the same place having the same feelings?

How can i move on?

I fell for nothing and i know that

But how can i move on from “nothing” ?
Le Toad Mar 24
I suppose
I shall always be—a wanderer
Walking the halls of my own mind
Always unsure, of what I might find.
Le Toad Mar 24
I am your view from your porch
I am the sand in your toes  
I am the light from your torch
I am the bearer of your woes
I am your mirror on the lake  
I am your connection to the land
I  am the leaf stuck to your rake
I am the hammer in your hand
I am the loneliest, part of you—
Watching—
Waiting—
Thank you for reading
Piyush Mar 24
They say:
Unsee their eyes,
Unlearn their feelings,
Clear your mind, and
Just focus on your dreams.
But the question is—
What is my dream?

Is it art?
Or is it music?
Maybe it’s both,
'Cause music itself is an art, right?

Or maybe it’s a boy,
Looking in the mirror,
Asking questions about
Affection and attraction.

Or maybe it’s a girl,
With soft eyes and a fake gaze.
But if it’s a girl,
Then it’s difficult to achieve, right?

Maybe it’s something else,
Yet to be discovered.
Or maybe it is discovered,
But I am still figuring it out.
Maybe I know what it is,
But I don’t know how to reach it.
Maybe I have taken a step,
Yet the path ahead remains uncertain.

Or maybe it is already achieved.
But if it is already achieved,
Then it is not a dream—
It is reality, right?

And if it is reality,
Then what is my dream?
Just a thought that wouldn’t leave my mind—so I wrote it down.
Ari Mar 21
"Who am I?"
Is the question I keep asking.
“Who am I?”
Is the reason I keep lacking
And as you girls walk by
I think
Oh, what a sight to see
because

I could never be
as sweet and kind as her,
or
as driven and ambitious as her,
or
as smart and unique as her,
or,
as talented and creative as her
or,
as funny or relatable as her

So which traits make me different from the rest?
what traits are mine, the query heavy on my chest?
is there anything which I am the best?

What makes me 'me'?
Is the new question I keep asking
What makes me 'me'?
Is what keeps my worth sinking
hmm anyone felt the same? the feeling of being lost?
Piyush Mar 21
A white feather bird,
Sitting on my grill,
Under the quiet moon,
As the world stands still.

It tilts its head,
Eyes dark yet bright,
Speaking in silence,
In the hush of the night.

"Why are you sad?"
It asks with a sigh,
"Are you afraid?"
As stars fill the sky.

"What do you want?"
Its voice lingers near,
"Is it difficult?"
Soft, yet so clear.

I stare at the bird,
Yet words do not flow,
For how do I answer,
What I barely know?
It is just me who is not answering anything and it's the white feather bird who knows everything.
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