the well stays sealed.
Pain turns to fire,
fire hardens to rage.
I wear anger as skin,
because sorrow is forbidden.

The wind caressed the flower, swaying its petals, and danced with it.
It whispered the tale of mountains, valleys, and plains, making the flower smell sweeter and shine brighter .

But suddenly one day, it struck the flower harder and caused it to wither off.
A beautiful story laid with harmony, but ended with agony.

The wind can cause the flower to flutter or fall off; it chose the latter, why?
Again, the wind blew a thousand times, but there was no flower to flutter or fall off.

This void sounded louder than any bulbul's song.
Has it stopped the wind from blowing?
Is the flower not worthy to exist?

The most misunderstood, misfelt, and underrated feeling.
Water flowing from eyes can never be fake.
It could be from happiness,
Can be with grief,
Can be out of jealous,
And can be through overwhelm.

The reason may be anything,
But they can never be fake.
They hold valuable expressions
Which words in dictionary too fail.

They carry the pain,
Unexpressed emotions,
And more.

Tears are misunderstood
For being weak, sensitive, and over-emotional.
But they are not in true sense.
One can never judge the value of tears.

They make heavy hearts lighter.
Hidden suffers heal.
They make expressions visible.
Make the situation intact.

Never look low of tears,
And the one who lets them flow freely,
Than to submerged them fearing judgements.

The greatest betrayal?

When the positivity-giver isn’t so
positive themselves. When the light
they hand out doesn’t reach their
own shadow.

Belief in self-worth— they say it’s
your shell. But I haven’t found the
pearl that fits my shape.

Still liquid—I form myself to every
room, shape my smile to fit their
forecast. These tears? Not weakness.
Just soil erosion.

Washing away what held me—
leaving me bare, unready for tomorrow’s
weight. Like the trampled flower—
I’m not phased. I remember the feet
that pressed me into the same ground
I bloomed from.

I haven’t forgotten all those soles
that stepped on my feat.

Pictures of my present— but none of them smile back.
Just me, talking to the man in the mirror,
    his eyes tired,
          his silence loud.
He stands in the frame, wrapped in skins made of fear—
To stand tall beneath the titles they gave him;
layered, worn,
  worn down.

To call it strength when you pretend to be more than you are.
But no one asks what it costs to keep holding up the
image they’ve
        painted of you.
I want to stop performing, but giving up feels like giving in
to everything they already believe about me, there's never an
account for the fallen man—
        only fingers pointed,
  as they count him out like a statistic.

I think about a demise so often it no longer shocks me.
It just waits—patiently— like something I’ve already
   shaken hands with,
    gripped by time pressing on me.
Sometimes I feel like I’m boiling alive, my chest
cracking open with a salty crunch, like a crab
   in a sealed ***—
    no escape, just steam and pressure.

A slow, bitter truth: no one’s turning the heat down.
And all I can say is—
   “Crap.”
     Not funny. Not light.
Just the word that stumbles out when your soul folds
in on itself and even pain doesn’t know
how to explain itself anymore.

I had friends — but never knew why.  
I laughed with them… but still felt shy.  
They smiled, I smiled — but I stood apart,  
They were close in distance, but far in heart.  

I saw them enjoy, and I enjoyed too.  
Those were moments I wish I still knew.  
They were just three steps away —  
Yet I felt like I had drifted astray.  

It’s like they’re present,  
And I became past.  
We had good talks…  
But they didn’t last.  

I had friends.  
But now they’re lost.

She was a simple girl.
A kind, happy going, compassionate and a talented one.
Over thinking was her hobby.
Taking pain was common for her.
She valued people more than self…
And received pain more than she deserved!!