#poeticthoughts
Someone asked,
What is the deepest point on the earth?
The Marina Trench in Pacific Ocean, all replied.
“HER EYES”, he replied.
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 12:10 AM UTC
"Never Forgotten"
Old quotes drift like leaves
Memories refuse to fade
Time holds every word
"Journey’s Turn"
At the journey’s end
A quiet doorway opens
Beginnings rise new
"Twists of the Path"
Life bends as it will
We adjust to shifting ground
Strength grows in the curve
"Slow Days"
Some days barely move
Empty hours stretch like dusk
Still, peace hides within
"Perception’s Trick"
Quiet days deceive
Solace waits in still moments
Calm becomes a gift
Feb 9
Feb 9, 2026 at 3:54 AM UTC
_To rhyme or not to rhyme_—
that's a question for the next line.
In a figure of speech, a poem is a direct
comparison to how I really feel, think—
it's a metaphor to my pen’s speech.
__Listen:__
I dance with my words, make missteps
through misspellings; I never planned
to rhyme, yet rhythm finds its way
underneath my feet.
My pen — _the poetic device._
Dec 14, 2025
Dec 14, 2025 at 3:49 PM UTC
You look so much
better now —
“I was always better,
You just didn’t stay long
Enough to finally see it.”
_Personal Growth_.
Dec 11, 2025
Dec 11, 2025 at 1:08 AM UTC
Confident when alone
I feel worthy, talented, well-behaved, and beautiful.
I love each mole, curve, and aspect of my body.
I am very well-versed in speaking languages and justifying my actions to self.
I love music, and my own voice gives me peace and feels soulful.
The Hesitant Me in Crowd
I feel worthless, arrogant, and stubborn.
I feel timid with my dark skin, weight, and not-so-attractive beauty.
I feel I am bad at communicating and always at fault.
My voice sounds bad, and I have a bad taste in music.
Why?
Why does everything seem different, as if I am carrying two faces of myself?
Why do the people I feel as a sense of protection seem like the reason for my insecurity at times?
Is it because my self-consciousness is making me doubt myself? What is the reason I am stuck between my confident self and hesitant, doubtful person?
And in between these faces,
I stand—
half-lit, half-lost,
searching for the whole.
Nov 4, 2025
Nov 4, 2025 at 1:40 AM UTC
he replays her birthday through his mind
“make a wish,” he says with excitement.
she pauses,
thoughts running,
then blows out the flame.
He remembers her smile,
The way the candle dimmed,
And how their love did too.
Now he lies awake wondering,
Was the wish she made
For someone better?
For him to fade away?
His heart shattered,
He gathers the pieces
Trying to make sense of what remains
She once told him,
“Maybe one day I’ll be creative inspiration”
Maybe she knew.
Maybe this was her plan.
Awake, he lays in the dark,
Writing poems and stories of
How the relationship lost its spark.
Broken-hearted, sobbing
He whispers to himself.
“My darling, you’ve become my muse”
Oct 20, 2025
Oct 20, 2025 at 3:36 AM UTC
It was raining today.
I stopped and sheltered from it,
watching the rain fall.
The flicker of my cigarette,
the sound of thunder—
all I could envision was you and me.
Running through the palace,
finding shelter,
laughter echoing, our clothes dripping.
Your hand in mine.
You grabbed me as I am merely a gentle flower.
I felt your lips on mine,
taking every breath of mine.
And you looked at me.
Those eyes.
I stare into the raindrops,
seeing those eyes,
hoping one day
they won’t be a part of my imagination,
but a memory my heart holds dear.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 2:25 PM UTC
In my garden,you are that one flower I want to save.
You are that season I always wait for.
You are that butterfly I dream to touch.
But in the end, the flood came-and the only thing left was weeds.
Let's start again.
Aug 30, 2025
Aug 30, 2025 at 3:39 PM UTC
What is it to be a poet?
Oh, I wish that I knew,
how do I paint the sky in words?
Without calling it blue?
As a poet can see,
what is blind to many eyes.
How they see through the fog,
of a world full of lies.
Oh, to be a poet,
is a blessing in disguise.
How do I write my heart ?
When it's plotting my demise.
A poet's life, is a life filled with pain,
bearing a burden they can't explain,
so they sit alone and write a verse,
and wonder, if poetry is a curse.
Oh I wish to be a poet,
allow my heart to feel it's pain,
to use curse of poetry,
to mend my heart again.
Aug 29, 2025
Aug 29, 2025 at 1:45 PM UTC
"Silent kills,
silent heals,
silent your silent
not silent,
silent you."
-Manoj
Jul 2, 2025
Jul 2, 2025 at 10:13 AM UTC
Every time I expect something from life,
A flood of questions rises within:
Don't expect. Accept and adjust.
Be happy with what you have.
Many don’t even have what you do.
And many more voices echo the same.
But what if my expectations are simple?
A homely atmosphere,
A loving family,
A supportive friend,
A peaceful life,
A meaningful profession.
Are these huge to expect from life?
I believe in self-love.
I believe we shouldn’t depend on others for happiness.
But in the long run, we all need someone—
Someone who admires our efforts,
Someone who showers love and care,
Someone who stays loyal,
Someone who lifts us when we fall,
Someone to lean on—when self-care isn’t enough.
May 26, 2025
May 26, 2025 at 10:38 AM UTC
I am a fish,
caught in the deep, forgotten oceans,
trapped beneath waves
that never ask my name.
But my soul —
my soul is a bird of light,
drifting weightless
through skies no net can hold.
My body knows the walls of water,
but my heart remembers stars.
Even in this blue prison,
I am endless flight.
Apr 5, 2025
Apr 5, 2025 at 9:41 AM UTC
I stand upon the cliff’s last breath,
Where tides arise and thunder spills.
Scavengers circle, watching, waiting—
Yet life still lingers in my bones.
The clouds above, like silent judges,
Could break and drown my fleeting hope.
Beneath, the ocean coils and beckons,
A fathomless abyss of sorrow.
The silver moon, a gleaming specter,
Summons waves to pull me under.
I teeter on the fragile edge,
One slip, one plunge into the deep.
Lightning snarls—a voice of warning,
A jolt to burn or leave me scarred.
If not with fire, then silent shadows
Will haunt me long beyond this night.
I saw the algae, once alive,
Now ghosts adrift upon the tide.
The trees I passed stood tall together,
Yet whispered falsehoods to the wind.
Serpents coil around their roots,
Whispering promises of power.
Many fall to hollow hunger,
Chasing echoes, craving ruin.
But air is shared, though lungs may differ,
And souls define, not flesh alone.
Roots can mend, bear fruits of wonder—
Change, though feared, is never lost.
If you listen, let it guide you.
Nature bends but bids us rise.
Though the storm may rage relentless,
Yet even storms must bow to light.
Mar 29, 2025
Mar 29, 2025 at 4:27 AM UTC
'selfless gratitude' -
not something one inherits;
a skill one acquires.
Dec 4, 2024
Dec 4, 2024 at 12:27 PM UTC
'choice' -
it's a weird impulse.
i did not choose to write this,
clearly.
Dec 1, 2024
Dec 1, 2024 at 11:22 PM UTC
day is done.
the night has come -
to swallow the heart of a dying sun.
lights are out,
the reveries are about
to take the shape of a loaded gun.
it takes a while -
for a thing so vile -
to lock its aim on a mind on the run.
but it finds a way,
to fire away -
right before it works out 1 + 1.
the birds at the window,
come and bestow
the occasional voice of reason;
for they know too well -
than to let the mind dwell
in the haunting silence of the season.
at the end of the day,
the mind obeys -
an imposter it deems ‘the chosen one’.
day is done.
the night has come -
to swallow the heart of a dying sun.
Nov 25, 2024
Nov 25, 2024 at 9:48 AM UTC
There is no prize to perfection,
No crown for its endless direction.
Only the stillness, cold and mute,
Of a dream that halts in its pursuit.
The edge of longing, sharp and thin,
Cuts deeper than the goal within.
For what is gained when all is won,
If the chase extinguishes the sun?
Perfection lies in things undone,
In breaths that falter, threads unspun.
For life is richer, raw, unplanned,
A fleeting touch, a trembling hand.
There is no need for flawless art,
But space to mend the human heart.
No prize awaits, no grand pursuit—
Only life’s quiet, imperfect truth.
Nov 23, 2024
Nov 23, 2024 at 12:25 PM UTC
Through soft static,
the silence hums,
as a steady tide,
where chaos succumbs
and white noise swaddles us
in its soothing embrace
drowning out the clamour,
creating tranquil space,
tuning into the comforting drone,
as peaceful slumber finally comes.
©️Lizzie Bevis
Oct 30, 2024
Oct 30, 2024 at 3:47 PM UTC
I love me.
I just don't think
Anyone else does.
I love me.
Sep 22, 2024
Sep 22, 2024 at 7:40 PM UTC