Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Arna 6d
They call it pichi rathalu,
a waste of ink and time.
But they don’t see the tremble in my hands
when I hold a pen,
or the storm I quiet
by pouring pain into lines.

Each word I write
is a cry I never screamed,
a tear I never showed,
a wound I stitched
with syllables no one dared to read.

They say, “Just study, forget all this.”
But how do you forget
what saved you?

These writings—
they aren’t just thoughts.
They’re survival.
They’re scars made beautiful.


"Let Them Call It Madness"

They call it pichi rathalu.
They laugh. Say I’m wasting time.
Say I should just focus on studies, like everyone else.

But they don’t know.

They don’t know these pages hold my pain—
not drama, not attention-seeking.
Real pain. The kind that keeps you up at 2 AM.
The kind that chokes you when you're trying to smile.

I write because if I don’t, I’ll explode.
I write because it’s the only thing that listens without judgment.
Because no one asked me,
“What happened?”
They just said,
“Be strong.”
“Move on.”
“Stop being so emotional.”

So I bleed on paper.
That’s not madness. That’s survival.

Let them call it anything.
This—
this is the only thing keeping me alive.
They call it madness.
But they don’t see the battles I silence with ink.
This isn’t just writing —
It’s survival.
It’s the language of wounds turned into words.
Let them laugh.
I’ll heal anyway.
Lalit Kumar Feb 28
I. Glass & Ghosts
Writing my name in a mirror of breath,
watching it vanish like I was never here.
Flesh remembers what time forgets,
but the winter smiles—
as if it knows something I don’t.

II. Streets & Scars
The city hums with untold stories,
where fathers are echoes
and lovers are lost in the fog.
Blind footsteps, heavy with fate,
scars rise like prayers in the wind.

III. Fire & Falling
Lungs filled with the weight of old wars,
teeth clenched against regret’s bite.
Stars don’t whisper,
they scream.
And some nights, I swear,
they burn just for me.

IV. Midnight & Memory
The river carries reflections of ghosts,
the moon is a silent witness.
Some things break quietly.
Some things burn forever.

— The End —