#scarsandstories - Hello Poetry

__Sinking tears –__ feelings don’t fall, they crash like glass hearts meeting pavement. Your chest? A sunken place. No bra strap to hold it up – just white linen, innocent for a moment, until it slips in front of eyes like mirrors reflecting every scar painted on your skin. __Sandcastle kisses,__ built soft – _fragile_ – on lips that no longer believe in forever. Yet you speak like royalty, saying boldly: __“Love me for what I am –__ not just who you think I’ve been.” Not a princess. Not a saviour. A mess. A wreck. _A fallen queen._ Wearing her cracked gold crown like a forgotten joke – that still makes your heart ache when it returns in the quiet between memories. __Bones for time__ – you pick at every hour like it owes you something. _Tick. Tick._ __Snap!__ The clock breaks where your mind does. You may live in the day, but you __breathe__ in the night. Freer beneath moonlight, where shadows stop asking questions – and silence finally listens.

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Jun 14, 2025

Jun 14, 2025 at 3:14 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

She Breathes in the Night

__Sinking tears –__ feelings don’t fall, they crash like glass hearts meeting pavement. Your chest? A sunken place. No bra strap to hold it up – just white linen, innocent for a moment, until it slips in front of eyes like mirrors reflecting every scar painted on your skin. __Sandcastle kisses,__ built soft – _fragile_ – on lips that no longer believe in forever. Yet you speak like royalty, saying boldly: __“Love me for what I am –__ not just who you think I’ve been.” Not a princess. Not a saviour. A mess. A wreck. _A fallen queen._ Wearing her cracked gold crown like a forgotten joke – that still makes your heart ache when it returns in the quiet between memories. __Bones for time__ – you pick at every hour like it owes you something. _Tick. Tick._ __Snap!__ The clock breaks where your mind does. You may live in the day, but you __breathe__ in the night. Freer beneath moonlight, where shadows stop asking questions – and silence finally listens.

51

They call it pichi rathalu, a waste of ink and time. But they don’t see the tremble in my hands when I hold a pen, or the storm I quiet by pouring pain into lines. Each word I write is a cry I never screamed, a tear I never showed, a wound I stitched with syllables no one dared to read. They say, “Just study, forget all this.” But how do you forget what saved you? These writings— they aren’t just thoughts. They’re survival. They’re scars made beautiful. "Let Them Call It Madness" They call it pichi rathalu. They laugh. Say I’m wasting time. Say I should just focus on studies, like everyone else. But they don’t know. They don’t know these pages hold my pain— not drama, not attention-seeking. Real pain. The kind that keeps you up at 2 AM. The kind that chokes you when you're trying to smile. I write because if I don’t, I’ll explode. I write because it’s the only thing that listens without judgment. Because no one asked me, “What happened?” They just said, “Be strong.” “Move on.” “Stop being so emotional.” So I bleed on paper. That’s not madness. That’s survival. Let them call it anything. This— this is the only thing keeping me alive.

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May 30, 2025

May 30, 2025 at 9:16 AM UTC

Arna_writes

Not just words

They call it pichi rathalu, a waste of ink and time. But they don’t see the tremble in my hands when I hold a pen, or the storm I quiet by pouring pain into lines. Each word I write is a cry I never screamed, a tear I never showed, a wound I stitched with syllables no one dared to read. They say, “Just study, forget all this.” But how do you forget what saved you? These writings— they aren’t just thoughts. They’re survival. They’re scars made beautiful. "Let Them Call It Madness" They call it pichi rathalu. They laugh. Say I’m wasting time. Say I should just focus on studies, like everyone else. But they don’t know. They don’t know these pages hold my pain— not drama, not attention-seeking. Real pain. The kind that keeps you up at 2 AM. The kind that chokes you when you're trying to smile. I write because if I don’t, I’ll explode. I write because it’s the only thing that listens without judgment. Because no one asked me, “What happened?” They just said, “Be strong.” “Move on.” “Stop being so emotional.” So I bleed on paper. That’s not madness. That’s survival. Let them call it anything. This— this is the only thing keeping me alive.

40

I. Glass & Ghosts Writing my name in a mirror of breath, watching it vanish like I was never here. Flesh remembers what time forgets, but the winter smiles— as if it knows something I don’t. II. Streets & Scars The city hums with untold stories, where fathers are echoes and lovers are lost in the fog. Blind footsteps, heavy with fate, scars rise like prayers in the wind. III. Fire & Falling Lungs filled with the weight of old wars, teeth clenched against regret’s bite. Stars don’t whisper, they scream. And some nights, I swear, they burn just for me. IV. Midnight & Memory The river carries reflections of ghosts, the moon is a silent witness. Some things break quietly. Some things burn forever.

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Feb 28, 2025

Feb 28, 2025 at 11:10 AM UTC

Kuch_baatein_khud_se

Some things break quietly, some things burn forever.

I. Glass & Ghosts Writing my name in a mirror of breath, watching it vanish like I was never here. Flesh remembers what time forgets, but the winter smiles— as if it knows something I don’t. II. Streets & Scars The city hums with untold stories, where fathers are echoes and lovers are lost in the fog. Blind footsteps, heavy with fate, scars rise like prayers in the wind. III. Fire & Falling Lungs filled with the weight of old wars, teeth clenched against regret’s bite. Stars don’t whisper, they scream. And some nights, I swear, they burn just for me. IV. Midnight & Memory The river carries reflections of ghosts, the moon is a silent witness. Some things break quietly. Some things burn forever.

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