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It is downright lame
How you put all the blame
On me, whose only aim
Is not to fan the flame
That you still cannot tame.

You kinda love this game.
You shout while I remain
Silent, but it's in vain —
You nonetheless act insane.

Don't you feel the shame?
Yet I'm the one who came
To you, but now I claim:
I will not stay the same.
Right here,
right now —

I break the chain.
my wounds
are ocean-deep.
caution advised.
even seasoned souls,
spotless and sure,
could easily drown.
July 2, 2025.
AMAN12 7d
They were climbing stairs—she and her brother,
bags rustling with homework and hunger.
A man on first floor leaned on the rail,
with stinky eyes and a grin too stale.
He said something foreign—they did not reply,
just quickened their steps, tried to pass by.

He quickened his steps. Her brother ran faster
Fumbled with keys then vanished altogether.
She stayed one stair behind, heart in a chase.
the stairwell became a trap, with no route to escape.
she let out a scream, but the building stood deaf.
Each wall a witness to this muted theft.

His sinister hands reached for her uniform skirt,
Lifted it and then her, pressed tight to his shirt.
She wriggled and fought till his grip came apart,
he dropped her but reached again to restart.

She lunged from the floor and caught his hand in her teeth.
bit down through the filth that festered beneath.
His howl split the air, and his hand dripped red.
he cursed, threw slurs, then stumbled and fled.

She gathered herself and got back home -to safety.
But all she got was dismissal, silences and scrutiny.

His wound must have healed by now- decades later,
But hers remains painful and fresh-probably forever.
This poem speaks for voices smothered by silence and those who returned home to find safety was another room for disbelief.
vik Jun 30
i woke inside the trench.
my teeth were not my own.
my hand was gone, or chewed
in word i’d never known.

the war was soft and wet.
the skull had turned to chalk.
birds dropped like folded notes.
the siege forgot to talk.

she rode like wrath grown tall.
her helm was grief made gold.
no mercy in her path,
just silence, woe and cold.

the saints had kissed her lips.
their bones were in her hair.
the banner trailed behind,
stitched from a baby’s prayer.

she said:
stand. (i was.)
bleed. (i am.)
forget. (i have.)

they named her rust and sin.
they called her winterborn.
i called her sir. she knelt.
she cracked the siegehorns’ horn.

she fed the dying steeds.
she named them one by one.
she burnt all of their spines
beneath a rotting sun.

we drank the ink from flags.
we ate the borderlines.
we fed the crowns to crows
we wept in battle lines.

dull gape, like beryl stars,
spun like a compass dead.
she searched for Gods on fire,
who left the church in red.

our vows were carved in filth.
she wore a veil of teeth.
i wore the wound she gave
and nothing else beneath.
a love poem, oddly enough
ProfMoonCake Jun 29
Look at you go—
you did not leave alone.
You took my sweet heart,
which overflows with love.

You took away my smile;
it's hidden under a bed of thorns.

Look at you go—
you did not leave alone.
My body floats around you.
Remember the way you held me?
My hair still flies
with the Bombay winds.

Look at you go—
you didn’t turn back to see
the blood, the sweat, and my guts
poured out like the sea.

The only words that I speak
are of you leaving me.
Cadmus Jun 22
🖤

Like a child running to his mother in tears,
seeking warmth in her arms,
only to be silenced with a slap.

That is the ache of being let down,
right where you thought safety lived.

⛓️‍💥
Some wounds don’t bleed , they echo in places we thought were safe.
Lance Remir Jun 4
I kiss the wounds you left behind

Because at least these scars

Would never leave me
Cadmus May 19
🚪

If your past knocks,
don’t answer.

It’s not here to talk

it’s here to wreck
what took you years
to rebuild.

Let it knock.
Let it wait.
Let it rot.

Just don’t forget:
some doors
are better sealed
forever.
This piece is a reminder that not every return deserves a welcome. The past, especially the parts you’ve outgrown, often carries the power to unravel healing. Strength lies not in revisiting, but in refusing to regress.
Cadmus May 20
🩸

We all have wounds.
Not all of them
show blood
trickling on the skin
those are the lesser ones.

The body heals.
Scabs form.
Scars fade.

But some wounds
bleed a different kind of red
silent,
invisible,
constant.

They live beneath smiles,
hide behind handshakes,
and echo
in quiet rooms.

No bandage fits them.
No doctor sees them.
And yet,
they shape us more
than any knife ever could.
This poem explores the unseen nature of emotional and psychological pain. While physical wounds are acknowledged and treated, the deeper, invisible ones often go unnoticed, yet they linger far longer and shape who we become.
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