Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
MOUMITA SARKAR Mar 2016
Tuesday
7:57 pm
15/3/2016

Woh jaa chuka hai…
Laakh koshish kar lunn,
Woh na rukha…
Woh  nahi rukega.. aab kabhi
Kitna bhi usse yaad kar lunn..
Woh jaa chukka hai..!

Woh na aab kabhi ageyega
Rutha jo hai mujhse bahut,
Shayed nafrat bhi aab,
pahele se zaida karne laga hai…
woh jaa chukka hai…!

Haan maine koshish ki hai ussko,
Bahut bhulane ki… par sab bhul jaati ***,
Shivayen uss ke…
2 saal ** gayen inn baton ko yaad kar ke,
Ki kabhi na kabhi aa hi jayegaa woh!

Woh yaadein jo chah kar bhi,
Kabhi bhulne hi nahi diya.
Jaane kya pata… ye pyaar hi tha
Yaa fhir ekh sapnaa…
Woh jaa chukka hai!
#some #memories cant forgettable :)
Aabid Rumi Apr 2017
Dil mera hadh main nhi
Tumpay he toh behaknay laga
Ulja saa tha,issy say pehle
Tumsay millkay toh sawaarnay laga
Hosh say zaida, khaboon mai rehnay laga
Har lamha tuj he pay, guzaarnay laga

Maan bhi lo  - pehchaan  lo  -iss dil ko toh ab jaan lo
Tere he hissa  hoon mai - batka hoon koi kinara toh do

Le chali oo naazni, dil mera kahaan le chali
khumar yeh nhi  koi , bas mai  nhi hai dewaangi

shammo shubha tujpay he luttey rahai
dil ki arizoo nigahoon say kehtey rahai
rahoon mai sang tere hum chalnay laga
bewaja yun .khamakha muskuranay laga

sansu mai ab,tu rehnay lage
zindagi ab tummay he zingdagi kehnay lage

ikraar hai -izhaar hai -mujpay tere chahat sawaar hai
utarta nhi -sambhalta nhi -mujpay tera nasha lazawaal hai

le chali oo bereham, karaar mera kahaan le chali
bebasi yeh koi nhi,bas main hi  hai awaargi
                    
                    written by: Aabid Rumi
keep writting until u write something extraordinary
Lily Apr 10
A is for Abigail, who shared with you a kindergarten trauma and
then forgot who you were in eighth grade, like Belinda, who
left without a word one sunday morning after mass, C is
Catalina, your best friend’s ex-best friend, who went
with you to Daana’s book launch in texas, and
Enrique, who you planned to room with in college but you hear from friends
crashed his car into a tree and joined the saints, but Flores had
another kid and his man bun is
slicker than ever and Gumaro, who you helped teach
english in fourth grade is still
hitting the gym beside Hiris, even as she
works at la perla full time and overtime, beside Isabella who
no white girl would talk to in middle school because they said she
smelled like dirt, or Juliana, punching
numbers into a cash register at the dollar general thinking
of falling in love with Kruz who made a
perfect vanilla cupcake candle in home ec but couldn’t
cook steak to save his life.  
Lucio remembers kissing you on the mouth in the church
nursery but he is now engaged to a white girl you’ve
never met, and he remembers a particular
messy Maria who would draw like her life
depended on it, and a Nadia who would cry in english 11
because her parents couldn’t help her with the homework
but still kiss him after her soccer games, who no longer
bothers to call Olivia, even though they were teammates for
a decade and now she works at her own sports shop with
a daughter who could have gone pro if only.
Profe, who was a migrant “helper” at your elementary school,
laughs at it all, remembering yelling at parents in spanglish,
although you heard her husband yelling at her on the phone at lunch,
laughing when Quito broke one of the chairs that the school bought with
its 4 million dollar bond that drained money and morale, who went
out with Romani and started a band in seventh grade that took
longer than usual to fizzle out, and the bullying stopped for a while, though
Sergio would never forget how it felt to bend down for hours with
bad black bruises up his back, wouldn’t ever stop
reliving every labored breath spent both here and there.  
And Thalia couldn’t even make a living, recalling almost
forgotten days of swingsets and slurping
pelon pelo rico tamarindo under the orange tube slide.  
Her ex-husband Umberto everybody but the feds
forgot about, and V is for Victor, the high school goalie who had to quit because he
strained his wrists in the fields, like Wanita, who is trying to raise
money for her second hip replacement, like father Xavier, who carves statues of
woodland creatures for the children he could never have, and
Yesenia, who sewed and sewed until her fingers curled and her
forehead wrinkled beyond repair, and she tells you that Zaida, who made the
best tamales in town, is now gone to the saints, and no longer
fears anything, even the government and their obsession with
small white slips of paper.

So much in a name, in a hyphen, in a tilde, but no, it
should be under V—“virgulilla,” and their names should be
written in your address book but instead
they’re in a list at some office in
the States underneath “undocumented” and “illegal.”
After John Keene’s ‘Phone Book,’ Dec 2021

hey y'all, it's been a while.  I'm trying to come back from hiatus and get back into writing and also to use my voice for bigger things.  I hope you like this poem and that it makes you think :)

— The End —