Thy the art
Thy my heart
Its beat and the heat
Pointless drift in pure chaos
Filled with islands of all the kinds
Some bearing peace, some with joy
Deep dark paths, and killer traps
Waters of kindness, hunts for the stillness
Ever growing numbers of unsaid beliefs
Merry go around overwhelming bluntness
I wish I knew how to steer the ship
Would have been pointless even so,
Since I am not sure what I am in
Is it ocean? Of fire for a change?
Or a vast blank space of the universe maybe?
My my, is this the first?
Ever been the same with anyone?
Doesn't matter anyway I guess
I know this is inexplicable
So, I am not waiting for advice

One day, let's go against the current—let's be different.
Let's break this silence and find our words again.
The world is bound by its rules and laws,a cage of its own design,
So let's deny them all,
And free ourselves from the relentless clamor of everyday life.

One dawn, let's wake and be transformed.
The world won't stop if we rise late,it's true,
But we take too long to shed our rigidity.
And in that time,how many innocent children lose their homes!
How many young hearts surrender their hope,
How many fresh lives are wasted,needlessly!

Perhaps we lack the power to change it all,
Perhaps we have little to give.
But instead of enduring in silence,
Let us choose to be different.
Let us choose to despise the beast in our world,
And let us learn,fiercely, to love again.

someone said
that turning pain
into art
takes guts.

they said it
about one of my poems —

called it inspiring.

then my job is done.
all i ever wanted
was to find someone
my words resonate with.
and in the process,
somehow,
i ended up
inspiring myself.

the pain i worked on,
moulded into poetry,
became my muse.
and when i feel low,
empty,
or bruised,
it calls to me
with its relentless tides,
half-formed stanzas
and mismatched lines,
until its whispers
become a symphony
i thought
only my heart
could hear.

i don’t need hurt
for my art anymore.
just give me a feeling,
give me a word,
and i’ll ask my poetry
to get back to work.

They never noticed
when she stopped waving back—
how her laughter faded
like music from a passing car,
how her shoes stayed clean
for weeks.

once, she chased rain
to the edge of the river,
barefoot, out of breath,
her shadow chasing behind.
they called her wild—
too alive to sit still.

but stillness came.
not with a scream,
just silence,
growing louder by the day.

no one asked
why her side of the bed
was always made.
why she didn’t hum anymore.
as long as she smiled
and passed her tests,
they assumed she was fine.

when they looked for her,
the water led the way—
not the current,
but the quiet reflection
she once stared into
a little too long.

when they found her,
she looked almost asleep.
hair spread out like grass,
hands still.
no bruises—
at least,
not the kind they talk about.

maybe
she just wanted to know
what peace feels like
underneath it all

I love the moon, though I don't know why. sometimes it's far,
sometimes it's near

as if I could catch it from the roof top.
it's gaze, so calm and peaceful,
the more I stare, the more beautiful it becomes
like a motherly love for her child.

I love the moon, though I don't know why, Each day I'm amazed by its appearance.
I watch it shift,
change shapes, and sometimes colors.

it's like the relieved feeling you get when finally lay to rest after a long, stressful day.
i love the moon, though I can't say exactly why.

What I wanted
was never given.
Now, what they offer
is apathy—
a void all I feel.

They criticized the desert,
yet all it needed
was a drop of water.
Instead, they offered a mirage.

Now there is no mercy.
It is the rough sand—
for them,
the arid ruin they created.

Now it is a heart of stone
the fearless eye of barren storm—
a total internal reflection!
never bound by laws.

I was suddenly struck with the idea that I didn’t feel anything. A certain loneliness had washed over me, and I could not talk, walk, speak, or even move of my own free will. Everything was now alarmingly still, and I could do nothing to escape it. Even the thoughts that crossed my mind were so painful to bear that I found myself trying to block them out.

Being in complete detachment from my own body, my old needs and desires seemed foolish and depraved. I did not want to see or have anything to do with the old things that brought me joy, for I could not understand, in this moment, what joy meant.

I found myself completely numb, and with that thought came another, even more surprising: that I had to stay in this unbearable situation. More torturous would have been to try to escape this weird state of mind than to actually experience it.
And I began to wonder: if I were to perish in this very instant, would I suffer — or, in the strange stillness of this numbness, would I even recognize the weight of feeling anything at all?