#writerscommunity
मैं खुद को किनारे पर ले आता हूँ,
फिर न जाने क्यों
अपने आप को समुंदर की गहराइयों में पाता हूँ।
टूट जाता हूँ अक्सर,
जब लहरों से
दोबारा जकड़ लिया जाता हूँ।
कोशिश कितनी भी करूँ
किनारे पर आने की,
वो लहरें फिर से
मुझे अपने साथ
खींच ले जाती हैं।
देखता हूँ खुद को,
तो फिर
मैं अपने आप को
दोबारा समुंदर की गहराइयों में पाता हूँ।
कभी-कभी थक जाता हूँ,
किनारे पर नहीं आना चाहता हूँ मैं।
समझ आता है—
किनारा सुंदर है,
पर अपनी खामियों के साथ ही
लहरों में बहता रहना चाहता हूँ मैं।
जिस सुकून में मैं जीना चाहता हूँ,
वो मुझे किनारे पर भी न मिले—
इसी डर के साए में
मैं फिर से
लहरों में उलझता चला जाता हूँ।
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 9:23 PM UTC
don’t know where you went
but I still talk like you’re listening
Like somewhere above me
there’s a version of you
just out of reach
but still close enough to feel
I call out in the quiet sometimes
like silence might answer back
if I say your name right
I don’t need everything back
I just need a moment—
one breath!!
Where it feels like you’re here again.
Come back down to earth for a second
Let me see you
Let me know I’m not just talking to the sky
I miss you in ways I can’t explain out loud
In ways that don’t really leave
And I know you may not come back…
I just needed to say it anyway
May 14
May 14, 2026 at 12:20 AM UTC
Stop lying to yourself.
You don’t work better under pressure
You’re just used to surviving in a panic
You do care
You just learned to act numb about it
over the years
so disappointment hurts less
You don’t need more time
You’re scared the version of yourself
that finally tries for real
might still fail
And maybe the hardest truth is this
healing doesn’t happen
when you finally feel motivated
It happens when you become exhausted
of becoming someone
your soul no longer recognizes.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 11:46 PM UTC
In every letter I wrote
in every morning
I still made it through
in every star
I stared at for too long
I loved you there
I meant all of it
No exaggeration
No perfect words
to fill the quiet air
Whatever I have left in me
has been given to you
And I don’t think time
is enough for this
Not even close...
If eternity is real
it still wouldn’t be long enough
to finish what I feel
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 11:44 PM UTC
I never met God
with a crown
or sitting on a throne.
I met God
in the middle of the street
in the rain
at 3AM
begging for help
with shaking hands.
I met God
at the top of a four-story building
looking down
thinking maybe
some people were never meant
to be saved.
I met God
sleeping alone in a room
year after year
while my mind
slowly turned against me.
I met God
while a brown book
sat untouched on a shelf
collecting dust
while I collected pain.
I met God
through addiction.
Through depression.
Through nights so dark
I stopped recognizing myself
in the mirror.
I met God
when everybody else left
and all I had
were my thoughts
echoing back at me.
I met God
when I finally broke down enough
to admit
I could not carry
this life alone anymore.
Nobody told me
faith would look like this.
I thought God would feel
like a church choir
or sunlight through stained glass.
Instead
He felt like surviving
another night
I thought would destroy me.
And somehow
still waking up
the next morning.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 11:37 PM UTC
Words meet me right where I am.
Not where I pretend to be.
Not where I wish I was.
But here,
in the quiet mess of now.
Some days they come gentle,
like water finding cracks in stone.
Other days they come heavy,
like truth
I can’t outrun.
And I don’t need them
to be perfect.
I just need them to be honest,
and to sit with me
without asking me to change
before the ink dries.
Because even when I don’t have answers,
even when I don’t feel whole,
the words still come.
And somehow
they understand me
better than I understand myself.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 11:31 PM UTC
They tried to name you
by the wounds they saw,
like broken chapters
were your only law.
They spoke in echoes
of the past you knew,
as if those moments
were the whole of you.
But you kept walking
through the doubt they cast,
leaving their shadows
buried in the past.
Because the truth inside you
never lost its flame,
even when the world
kept calling you by pain.
They didn’t feel the courage
growing in your chest,
or the quiet promise
you refused to rest.
They never heard the voice
rising deep within,
whispering softly:
you will rise again.
So now you stand stronger
than their narrow view,
more than every story
they believed was true.
More than every label
others tried to give—
you are proof that broken things
can still learn to live.
And the truth they’ll never hold,
no matter where they’ve been:
you were never the damage.
You were always the strength
within.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 10:45 AM UTC
They thought they knew you
from the marks you wore,
reading only fragments
of the silent war.
They saw the damage
written on your frame,
but never understood
how you rose from pain.
They spoke in whispers
like they knew the truth,
never walking once
in your wounded shoes.
They judged the surface,
never looked within,
never saw the battle
you refused to give in.
They didn’t see the fire
quiet in your chest,
or the stubborn hope
you protected best.
They didn’t see the nights
you refused to break,
or the strength it took
just to stay awake.
But the truth was living
far beyond their sight,
growing through the dark
like a hidden light.
Every scar they noticed
told a different tale—
not of someone broken,
but of someone who prevailed.
So let them talk freely,
let them guess and pretend.
They never knew the start,
they won’t know the end.
Because what they never saw
is the truth you defend:
you were never defined
by the battles you’ve been in.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 10:44 AM UTC
They don’t really know you,
they just trace the lines,
reading silent stories
in the scars and signs.
They don’t see the courage
quiet in your chest,
or the endless battles
you somehow out-pressed.
They see the surface,
the fragments and the seams,
but never feel the weight
of shattered hopes and dreams.
They speak like judges
from the shallow view,
never understanding
what you’ve battled through.
They don’t see the ember
burning in your heart,
or how every failure
helped rebuild the parts.
They don’t see the fighter
standing in your skin,
or the strength it took
just to breathe again.
But there’s a deeper story
hidden far inside,
beneath every memory
you were forced to hide.
A truth still beating
steady through the pain,
a voice still rising
every time you strain.
So let them meet the person
buried deep within,
let them hear the truth
in the strength you bring.
Let them learn the lesson
written in your scars—
that the fiercest light
often comes from dark.
Because you are the courage
that refused to bend.
You are every moment
you chose to stand again.
And when they try to name you
by the wounds you’ve been in,
stand tall and remind them:
you are more
than the shape of your skin.
Mar 24
Mar 24, 2026 at 10:29 AM UTC
I reach for your presence,
but only grasp the nightmares held at bay,
while my dreams drift away.
Why do I crave your essence?
One day my questions will be answered—
but not today, not tomorrow,
maybe soon.
Mar 19
Mar 19, 2026 at 6:09 PM UTC
Breaking like empty sea shells —
waiting for waves to catch my breath.
Tragedy lies; life’s horizon flat-lined,
a heart stopping at the breath of love...
flat— — —lined
Pretending I am owned; not owed.
I am cold waters; a stone with steely
resolve, holding back joy before its time.
Where even cruel failures still teach,
breathing; in and out on the open sea.
And still, the tide teaches me to breathe.
Mar 5
Mar 5, 2026 at 4:00 PM UTC
Weights and scales;
wait for the scales to peel from your eyes —
what do you want? We all jump to conclusions;
the answer leaps first, like a brown bunny
darting through tall grass. The ideas you
refuse to birth are still born — when they die
within you, it’s a stillborn dream.
You ask for a warning before illusion
arrives, but you’re the one digging —
in and out, out and in — burrowing
into yourself where echoes start to
sound like truth. Will it end your dream?
Only if you choose to cover it with
dirt and call that darkness home.
Just don’t mistake the grave you’re
digging for a sanctuary.
Mar 4
Mar 4, 2026 at 2:25 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
She walks in, her eyes like soft pencil lines.
She smiles when she looks at the waitress,
ordering a coffee.
I sip mine slow, looking out the diner window.
“You always draw this late?” she asks.
Only when I can’t sleep. Or when I’m hungry.
Just depends on which one happens first.
She rolls her eyes.
Falling feels like a good pen that suddenly runs out of ink.
Normally, when I draw, I’m in my own little world.
No conversation. Just my graphite and my sketchpad.
Of all the beautiful colors that life can arrange,
I admit—I’m intrigued by this woman.
I completely put my pencil down and let my coffee get cold.
But that’s how fast inspiration strikes.
This grayscale drawing, splashed with the rainbow that is her.
Although I’m listening, I keep my head down,
pretending I’m still drawing the picture I was working on
when she first walked in.
She sits two booths away, hesitating before asking,
“Can you draw me?”
I look up immediately.
“You’d have to come closer.”
I catch the reflection of the city in her eyes—
the blinking sign outside, the brake lights from the cars.
I flip the page and start tracing lines on my sketchpad.
She tilts her head, watching my progress.
I ask the waitress for a refill.
“Do you ever draw people you don’t know?”
I look at her, smile, and say, “No.”
At some point, we see everyone before we really meet them.
In a way, it wasn’t a lie.
I have seen her somewhere before.
Or at least, I’ve thought of meeting someone
who looks the way she looks.
But then again, art is subjective.
She watches me over the rim of her mug as she sips her coffee.
She leans forward.
“What do you see when you look at me?”
The most beautiful things happen at unexpected moments.
Normally, when someone asks a question like that,
if you answer too fast, it’s a lie.
If you take too long, it’s a lie.
Before I knew it, I told her:
“Someone that talks to strangers when she’s bored.”
She rolls her eyes.
“Let me see.”
I show her the sketch,
point at it, and imitate her voice.
“Can you draw me?”
It’s not exactly polished.
She studies the rough graphite,
scratched to life between the pores of the page.
She rests her elbows on the table.
Before she answers, I speak first.
“I think about what things can be, versus what’s presented to us.
If we tell each other something deep about ourselves—
a strong 7.5 out of 10—it’s going to be either forgettable
or full of **** Either way, we’re both hoping
not to regret opening up
to someone who’s just going to nod and smile.”
She smirks.
“If I told you I love the progress on the picture so far, what then?”
I shrug.
“I’d still think you’re full of ****
But you’re kind of cute.”
Falling feels like a good pen that suddenly runs out of ink.
To be honest, I don’t think it’s the uncertainty of where I’d land.
I haven’t exactly lived my life by the advice I give other people.
I never really think about the end of things.
Whatever I do, I just go with it and expect the best.
I think about it, of course.
But eventually, the ink runs out.
That’s just life.
Although I’m drawing her physically,
in my mind, I’ve drawn the curve of her neck twice over.
The thought of drawing someone else
doesn’t even come to mind
Mar 14, 2025
Mar 14, 2025 at 12:24 AM UTC
They lay, silent on the ground
awaiting your footsteps
to kick them around.
Those autumn leaves,
their rich colours abound.
...amp...
Oct 22, 2020
Oct 22, 2020 at 5:53 AM UTC
This is my park,
It's in between the pages of a paper
Where I write in large to pour out my heart
The place my peace is found
This is my park, and it's my diary
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 7:15 PM UTC
At starting line, outspoken
At finish line, heartbroken
You and I were once a token
Now, words are left unspoken
© 2020 Poem by Verse Xscape
Oct 12, 2020
Oct 12, 2020 at 12:53 PM UTC
Look into my eyes,
what do you see?
Is it a baffled soul
masquerading
as me?
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 6:25 AM UTC
Sleeping limbs,
hair looking like a display of drunk,
tongue breathing the smell of skunk,
closed eyes still acting as a screen projector for my daisy dream.
All this,
whilst standing,
in a hungry bath.
Hungry for the applause of water droplets,
it’s echo making the drums in my ear bang at every beat.
Oh finally! sober strands of hair thanks
to the medicine called ‘wet’.
Lazy limbs finally awoken by the kicks
of caffeinated splashes.
My crusty feet marinated
in a shallow stream.
My tongue doing the Mexican wave
in a pure fountain.
At least it scared the skunk away.
The cool fingers of the water poking
against my snuggled eyelids.
No more daisy dream.
Thanks to the shower!
All this,
and work is in 10 minutes.
Oh crap…..
Jul 15, 2020
Jul 15, 2020 at 3:34 AM UTC
Whatever it takes,
I don't wanna be a fake
whoever dare's to tell me no!
I just mean for what I've to lost.
though, somehow it couldn't give satisfaction most
you'd left me with a broken heart.
Still wishing you,
but cause unknown...
If I ain't enough of
If I ain't worthy of
I do deserve betray
for things mess up to.
cuz it's all about karma
eventually in end,
I’ll forget all somehow.
But mirror of your praise
torn apart long...
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 1:36 PM UTC
a nd with my e yes
i widely o pen,
I see yo u
like consonants
needing their vowels,
I need Y ou
Dec 5, 2018
Dec 5, 2018 at 7:48 PM UTC