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Life isn't fair for all, that much is true,
There's a path for me and everyone of you.
In the brevity of our days,
We're tasked with choosing life's ways.

Forgive who hurt, let grudges fade,
Memories to linger, they've been made.
Stay true to self, in every deed,
For authenticity is what humans need.

Make peace with ghosts of yesteryears,
They're but echoes in our ears.
Comparison is a thief of joy,
Each life is its own unique floy.

A engine, the brain, and heart too,
Powering thoughts and desires anew.
Happiness lies within your grasp,
No other holds that sacred clasp.

Time is the great healer, stitches wounds,
Turning sorrow into tunes.
Embrace your quirks, be eccentric,
In diversity, find the magic.

Life's a journey, not a race,
Laugh, love, and find your grace.
Believe in miracles, they're near,
In every smile and in every tear.

Envy breeds resentment, it's true,
But your journey's yours, others cannot pursue.
My friend, the best is yet to unfold,
In our stories which should shine as gold.

It's never too late to seize the day,
To chase your dreams, come what may.
So let these truths light your way,
In the dance of life, let's sway.

By
Sanji-Paul Arvind
pilgrims Mar 24
Three cheers for broken things!
Those who god rapes
and what the cat brings
inside causing screams. The last laugh.
Reduced to a shocking object;
denied personal being, a personal hell,
alone, touched by shadows.
All shadows imply light.
Torture of existence transforms to bliss.
Taken request, now give it a kiss.
See and be seen.
Be vulnerable, be keen to love the ugly.
Cringing dancing singing -
Obscene wisdom, divine pain:
Dominion of fate.
Tainted blood yet the soul won't stain.
Beginning: A story started from the day I reached my mothers womb,
Suffering and pain I will carry till my tomb.
Playful childhood naughtiness,
Which did bring my mother little happiness.
Same naughtiness cannot be carried to adulthood,
As will definitely bring tremors in her mood.
For all misbehavior, by her, there will be lot o abuse,
Trust me those are all love in disguise.

Childhood: I have filled her world with sorrow’s
My words would’ve pierced her heart as arrows.
I, a selfish boy with no guidance,
Filled with this worldly nuisance.
Lost my youth in various atrocities,
Roaming around with brats around cities.
Little did she know her child’s future,
Will always carry this societal fracture.

Adolescence: A romantic stage of play,
My heart got slayed.
In a world of feminism,
Where I wished to see womanism.
All their wit with sweet talk,
Will lead you to a broken heart, in life’s walk.
The one I truly loved, didn’t love me, in my teen,
The one that loved me, found its way in the wedding.

Adulthood: The saddest day when I lost my father,
Who was always correcting me, for my better future.
As he never wanted me to be another him,
Making me stronger was his only aim.
It give me chills to my bone of his pain and suffering,
Watching and standing like a stone, not knowing.
A bell ringing that it is my time to prepare and to shine,
To fight life’s battle, armor up for my life tasks, not to whine.

Corporate: Filled with competition, greed & betrayal are ways of life,
In this godforsaken world of strife.
Corporates with fake promises,
Forgetting all that they work, build and save, one day dies.
Corporate *******, snakes and vultures,
Spreading venom & feeding upon one's weakness’.
Countless professional deaths & murders,
By calling us team, family and as friends.

Lesson: In a cruel world, teach thy kids how to fight,
For survival and for their future to be bright.
Live life to the fullest, help needy but don’t expect,
Nothing from anyone, whole life will be perfect.
It is a lesson from her,
And she is the greatest in my life, my mother.
My parents blessings and love has become my lifeline,
Which I will never let go in vain…

Conclusion: Lucky are the ones whose mothers starve,
To ensure her portions, children can have.
My mothers prayers to all the gods with her weeping,
for protecting me from evil and to continue guarding.
Her cries and prayers was heard,
By the great gods she trusted for her ward.
The only person who suffers all,
It was her, whose pain was to see my survival.

By
Sanji-Paul Arvind
The truth is,
There's no elite thinker's society,
We're all elite in our own respect.
We evolved from bent over forms,
Working for raw survival.
But as we grew, some of us split away,
Faded from simple survival,
Growing a taste for art.
So were born the sculptors,
The painters, and the poets.
Clever as they were,
The old artists.
They formed a secret society,
For elite thinkers to survive.
Can we take that idea and use it to save those who've avoided the brainwashing?
Ankush Mar 16
They ask,
How can I live?

And say,
They could not.

I laugh
and they laugh along.

Some days after,
They ask again,
How can I survive?

And say,
They wouldn't be able to.

I laugh again,
So they laugh along.

Now I ask myself,
How cursed am I?
& I let myself
Cry.

And when they ask again,
I just smile.
When I was 6 , my family found out that I have a disease called celiac disease or for short gluten/ wheat allergy , so basically I can't eat anything made from wheat , my lifestyle and diet is very different from those in my country, I am cut off from eating every thing outside.
So for ten years I have been constantly asked by my friends , cousins and sometimes very close friends , they joke , they ask , they pity , they sympathise , and they ask how can I live.
I don't know if it should have been me more tough to laugh and laugh again on the same question over and over again.
Maryann I Mar 15
I’ve lost count—
was it the fourth winter or the seventh spring
when the silence curled too tightly around my ribs,
and I mistook it for peace?
When the night stopped being a comfort
and started swallowing me whole?

I’ve lost count—
of how many times I’ve stood at the edge of the thought,
toe curling over the ledge,
heartbeat whispering, ”this time, maybe.”
Of how often I’ve written letters I never mailed,
just to prove to myself I was still worth a goodbye.

There were nights I rehearsed my exit
like a prayer no one would answer—
softly, solemnly,
just in case the universe was listening.

I’ve forgotten the shape of my first goodbye,
but I remember the echo—
how it rang in my bones long after the moment passed,
how it became a second heartbeat,
steady and hollow.

How many bottles did I uncap,
not to swallow,
but to measure the weight of the idea in my palm?
How many bridges did I cross,
wondering if the wind would take mercy
and push me before I had to decide?

I’ve counted calendar days like scars,
tallied time in tear-salted pillowcases,
marked milestones not by celebration,
but by survival.

There’s a number for everything—
beats per minute, breaths per hour,
how long it takes for a wound to scab,
how many milligrams it takes to numb a scream—
but there is no metric
for how many times a soul tries to disappear.

People ask why I’m so tired.
I smile,
because how do you explain
what it means to dig yourself out of your own grave
again and again
with bare, trembling hands?

But still—
I wake up.
Not always because I want to.
Sometimes just because I didn’t succeed.

And yet—
I’m still here.
Tired, yes.
Heavy with ghosts I haven’t named.
But here.

And that has to count for something.
This year has been overwhelming, to say the least. But through it all, I’ve been fighting—holding on, trying to stay grounded just a little longer, enough to heal and find myself again. I want to express my deep gratitude to this community, which has been a place of solace when I needed it most. To those who have listened to my vents, offered comfort, or simply acknowledged my pain, your presence has meant more than words can capture. Your quiet support has been a lifeline, and I am truly thankful for it.
Malcolm Mar 11
Who am I?
Not formed of parts,
but a fracture,
splintered by the weight of forgotten names,
the weight of nothing.

An assembly of fragments
swallowed by echoes,
sunk into the hollow of things never spoken.

TIME, split by fire, veins dripping with prophecy,
shivering in the hollow,
a forgotten scream,
shouting at empty rooms
(what have we become? WHAT?)

THE BODY, bent under the weight of hunger,
muscles wrapped in rust,
aching for truth
that is never here.

DESIRE, liquid and restless,
eating away the flesh of tomorrow,
always reaching, always breaking
(Is this life? Is this all?)

HANDS, cracked and bleeding,
trying to hold what was never meant to be held,
they tremble,
they grasp,
they tear
(why does it never stay?)

THE VOID, speaking in whispers,
it swallows everything—
truths, lies, your name, my name,
they are gone, reduced to ash,
all of us slipping through its fingers.

FATHER, who is a shadow,
MOTHER, who is a wound,
SISTER, who is silence,
BROTHER, who is a scream

THE SCARRED WOMAN, draped in nothingness,
her skin a memory,
her breath a cold wind,
blowing through the cracks,
and she—disappears.

I,
nothing but a witness to my own unraveling
staring into the chaos,
grasping at pieces
I will never understand.

And still, I stand.
Broken.
Unfinished.
Copyright Malcolm Gladwin
March 2025
SHATTERED & UNNAMED
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