#emotionalverse - Hello Poetry

_Walking down the aisles of fear_ – a thousand miles paved in soft-spoken panic, a cart full of dreams, half on sale, half returned. And on other days, I crash like a kart – cornered, spinning, never quite finishing the lap. Tell me: what's the missing piece to a scar? The echo that completes the pain, or the piece of you still aching to be whole? Some days feel like broken piano strings – and not every key fits success, as the minor hopes can also become our major regrets. And still, you stay – a melody trapped in place, living to dream. Yet if that lullaby won’t rest your mind, find another song to sing. One that knows your name. Grinding your smiles, stained with bitter coffee – as brewed remarks sip back at you. You try to hold a strong stance in the night, but don’t live for one-night stands with your own worth. We are all skin and sand – grains of the past clinging to the present, footsteps washing away even as we walk forward.

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Aug 5, 2025

Aug 5, 2025 at 3:26 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Steps in the Sand

_Walking down the aisles of fear_ – a thousand miles paved in soft-spoken panic, a cart full of dreams, half on sale, half returned. And on other days, I crash like a kart – cornered, spinning, never quite finishing the lap. Tell me: what's the missing piece to a scar? The echo that completes the pain, or the piece of you still aching to be whole? Some days feel like broken piano strings – and not every key fits success, as the minor hopes can also become our major regrets. And still, you stay – a melody trapped in place, living to dream. Yet if that lullaby won’t rest your mind, find another song to sing. One that knows your name. Grinding your smiles, stained with bitter coffee – as brewed remarks sip back at you. You try to hold a strong stance in the night, but don’t live for one-night stands with your own worth. We are all skin and sand – grains of the past clinging to the present, footsteps washing away even as we walk forward.

21

I saw you again, not in presence, but in light, A flicker in the reel, a whisper in the night. Your hands, adjusting your saree with grace, Unaware, you burned your name on my gaze. In a crowd of colors, you were the calm, A breeze in winter, a hush in a psalm. I laughed at my heart, stubborn and wild, Still dreaming of you like a foolish child. They say fate draws lines we cannot bend, That some stories are not meant to transcend. But I— I have danced with the idea of us in my mind, In a parallel world where rules are kind. You wore tradition like a crown that day, And I, a silent poet, looked away. But in dreams, I held your hand, so light— Not to keep, just to feel it once right. They won’t let me call you mine, I know, Same roots, same echoes, that’s how these go. But hearts don’t know of caste or clan, They bloom when they simply can. So if you ever wonder, even in disguise, Why a breeze feels familiar, or tears just rise— Know this: You were a chapter I couldn’t rewrite, A light that warmed me… then slipped out of sight.

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Apr 8, 2025

Apr 8, 2025 at 12:09 PM UTC

Kuch_baatein_khud_se

A Ray I Couldn’t Hold

I saw you again, not in presence, but in light, A flicker in the reel, a whisper in the night. Your hands, adjusting your saree with grace, Unaware, you burned your name on my gaze. In a crowd of colors, you were the calm, A breeze in winter, a hush in a psalm. I laughed at my heart, stubborn and wild, Still dreaming of you like a foolish child. They say fate draws lines we cannot bend, That some stories are not meant to transcend. But I— I have danced with the idea of us in my mind, In a parallel world where rules are kind. You wore tradition like a crown that day, And I, a silent poet, looked away. But in dreams, I held your hand, so light— Not to keep, just to feel it once right. They won’t let me call you mine, I know, Same roots, same echoes, that’s how these go. But hearts don’t know of caste or clan, They bloom when they simply can. So if you ever wonder, even in disguise, Why a breeze feels familiar, or tears just rise— Know this: You were a chapter I couldn’t rewrite, A light that warmed me… then slipped out of sight.

26

वाट पाहिलेली तिजी मी, पण ती नाही आली खिडकीत दिसलेली ती शेवटची, परत दिसलीदेखील नाही कित्तीएक वर्षं गेली आता, आता गेलाय खूप काळ तिच्या आठवणींचा मात्र, मी केलाय सांभाळ कुठे असेल आत्ता ती? ह्या प्रश्नानं दिला त्रास चेहऱ्यावर आहे हसू, पण आतून आहे मी उदास विचारलेलं तिच्याबद्दल, चौकशी खूप केलेली कुणास ठाऊक, कुठल्या शहरात, होती ती हरवलेली तिच्या आठवणीने खूप त्रासलोय, नाही मला सुचत काही म्हणूनच कदाचित परत विचारतोय — कुठे असेल आत्ता ती??

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Jul 11, 2025

Jul 11, 2025 at 12:34 AM UTC

aaplakavi

कुठे असेल आत्ता ती

वाट पाहिलेली तिजी मी, पण ती नाही आली खिडकीत दिसलेली ती शेवटची, परत दिसलीदेखील नाही कित्तीएक वर्षं गेली आता, आता गेलाय खूप काळ तिच्या आठवणींचा मात्र, मी केलाय सांभाळ कुठे असेल आत्ता ती? ह्या प्रश्नानं दिला त्रास चेहऱ्यावर आहे हसू, पण आतून आहे मी उदास विचारलेलं तिच्याबद्दल, चौकशी खूप केलेली कुणास ठाऊक, कुठल्या शहरात, होती ती हरवलेली तिच्या आठवणीने खूप त्रासलोय, नाही मला सुचत काही म्हणूनच कदाचित परत विचारतोय — कुठे असेल आत्ता ती??

20

She was born between slammed doors and shattered vows, a child no one fought for. Her name was scribbled in ink on court papers and custody exchanges -- not whispered in lullabies, not sung to sleep. Her mother vanished behind bitterness, her father dissolved into silence. No one stayed. No one came back. She became someone else’s responsibility, folded into the quiet corners of her grandparents’ rigid home. They kept her clothed, kept her fed, but love … love was an echo she could never reach. She learned to disappear without dying -- a ghost with warm skin, drifting through classrooms, holidays, birthdays no one remembered. At sixteen, she confused need for love and shackled herself to a boy who only wanted to feel powerful. She bled into motherhood before she learned her own name. Her youth slipped into cribs and quiet sobs. No one asked if she was okay. So she ran. Into fire. Into chaos. Into strangers’ arms and bottles and moments that pretended to care. She sought warmth like a starving dog, chasing sparks that burned her fingers clean off. Every reflection was someone else -- someone she hated, someone she blamed, someone she pitied. They called her damaged. They called her lost. No one asked why. No one stayed long enough to teach her how to stay for herself. But -- One night, years later, with mascara dried like ink trails and silence humming in her throat, she stood in a bathroom mirror and did not look away. For the first time, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t lie. She saw the girl -- abandoned, bruised, bone-tired from surviving herself. But still breathing. Still here. The world hadn’t wanted her. But it hadn’t killed her either. And buried beneath every rejection, every bruise disguised as a lesson, was a flicker -- small and trembling, but hers. The light she spent a lifetime chasing was never in their hands. It lived in her ribs, waiting. Burning low, but burning true. She was the match. She always was. But no one taught her how to strike. © Dark Water Diaries

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Oct 1, 2025

Oct 1, 2025 at 8:28 PM UTC

Brwyne

The Girl the World Forgot (Part 1)

She was born between slammed doors and shattered vows, a child no one fought for. Her name was scribbled in ink on court papers and custody exchanges -- not whispered in lullabies, not sung to sleep. Her mother vanished behind bitterness, her father dissolved into silence. No one stayed. No one came back. She became someone else’s responsibility, folded into the quiet corners of her grandparents’ rigid home. They kept her clothed, kept her fed, but love … love was an echo she could never reach. She learned to disappear without dying -- a ghost with warm skin, drifting through classrooms, holidays, birthdays no one remembered. At sixteen, she confused need for love and shackled herself to a boy who only wanted to feel powerful. She bled into motherhood before she learned her own name. Her youth slipped into cribs and quiet sobs. No one asked if she was okay. So she ran. Into fire. Into chaos. Into strangers’ arms and bottles and moments that pretended to care. She sought warmth like a starving dog, chasing sparks that burned her fingers clean off. Every reflection was someone else -- someone she hated, someone she blamed, someone she pitied. They called her damaged. They called her lost. No one asked why. No one stayed long enough to teach her how to stay for herself. But -- One night, years later, with mascara dried like ink trails and silence humming in her throat, she stood in a bathroom mirror and did not look away. For the first time, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t lie. She saw the girl -- abandoned, bruised, bone-tired from surviving herself. But still breathing. Still here. The world hadn’t wanted her. But it hadn’t killed her either. And buried beneath every rejection, every bruise disguised as a lesson, was a flicker -- small and trembling, but hers. The light she spent a lifetime chasing was never in their hands. It lived in her ribs, waiting. Burning low, but burning true. She was the match. She always was. But no one taught her how to strike. © Dark Water Diaries

75

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?

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Jul 19, 2025

Jul 19, 2025 at 9:22 AM UTC

Parvathi

ISN'T IT WORTHY?

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?

9