My works...

What is a poem? Is all I can think about. How do I write it? Is all I can wonder of. From the moment I’ve read yours, From the moment I laid my eyes on your words, I believe in magic, I believe in the power of words. They told me that, A poem has to have it's words Rhyme. A poem has to sound like a clock with it’s Chime. They told me that, A poem has to have Metaphors and analogies. When life itself is a metaphor, What else can I write? Your poem, However, Questioned all that they told Right from it’s header. Your words had a flow, But they didn’t rhyme. Your words were a clock, Which didn’t chime. And yet, Yet they decided to call it poem, And I realized, The words need not rhyme, When their sentiments did. The clock need not chime, Since each second ticked.   You taught me, Metaphors and analogies Are by themselves a poem, A poem pulls them all in, By itself. You explained me that, Poem is not an arrangement Of words, But it is the word

She looked into his eyes brimming with tears, reflecting her own eyes. But he was quick to blink them away before she could do anything. If love hurts, it pains even more. He turned around and walked away as fast as he could, running away from the bitter past just like he always did. She was braver than he was. She was ready to face her fears and confront her past. He used to be a very courageous person. It's a pity that he can't look into her eyes today. Those eyes in which he'd drown himself in. Those eyes in which he'd look and lose the count of minutes and hours. She looked at his fading figure and gave a bitter smile. She knew she made mistakes that can't be forgiven but he's not a saint either. She might be at fault, but he's not faultless either. Him turning a blind eye towards the past, she believes is the greatest reason he's suffering and in turn, she is. Both loved eachother, and if given a chance would accept in a heartbeat to get things to n

I remember looking at her when she used to play as a child. I remember her promises to always be happy. I remember her smile. I remember her eyes. I was always her favorite. She'd spend hours together with me sometimes. She loved me. She never told me, but I knew. Because she'd sit crying sometimes, in front of me. And I remember her promising to herself that it'd be the last time she is crying for that reason. I remember her breaking those promises and then reprimanding herself for it. I remember the feeling I got everyday when I saw her. No one else could make me feel so. The glint of happiness in her eyes made me happy and I reflected her happiness back. It's ironic. When she'd cry, I'd only wish to make her happy, but again I'd reflect her sadness back. Maybe it was because she was my emotion. Her mood decided me. I remember her nervousness when she had a presentation. She'd ask me to listen carefully and look at me, straight. Directly. I'd obe

She looked into the space as her eyes filled with a fresh set of tears. They traced the path made by the previous tears as they rolled down her soft cheeks. Despite the tears, she tried to smile. It has been a long time since she actually smiled. Letting it go was actually easier than she thought. She always felt that letting go is a very difficult thing and she recently realised that she gave up without even trying. And when she finally did try, she understood one can never forget and letting go certainly didn't mean forgetting. Letting go means to forgive. Not forget. It means to forgive and let all the weight get off your heart. It means to stop crying about the things that aren't worth of present but are things of the past. Letting go doesn't mean to delete that chapter of our life, it just means ending that chapter in our life. And now, when she has cut the final tie with that chapter and concluded it, tears first started to brim in her eyes threatening to come out a

She kept running until her legs were paining, her head was spinning, with the wind flowing past her in the opposite direction. She kept running not caring about her heart racing, drops of sweat rolling down her face, neck and shoulders. As she kept running physically, her mind was running with thoughts. Innumerable thoughts. Full of choices. When her legs decided not to cooperate with her, she stopped running, hoping that her thoughts would stop running wild too. However, it didn't happen much to her disappointment. She pulled in a deep breath and forced herself to move forward. She forced herself to control the urge to stop. She forced herself to resume running. Her physical fatigue may exhaust her completely, she only wished to exhaust her thoughts. She and running shared a bond. She'd run for pleasure. She'd run for fun. She'd run for distraction. But today, it was not working. But she wasn't the one to give up. She started to run, and a gasp escaped her. Her fe

Just because I say bitter truths, it doesn't mean I am bitter. Just because I won't mince words, it doesn't mean I don't hesitate. Just because I call myself strong, it doesn't mean I can't be vulnerable. Just because I call myself independent, it doesn't mean I will refuse a shoulder to lean on. Just because I don't say, it doesn't mean I will never want it. Just because I'm optimistic, it doesn't mean I will not be able to feel negativity. Just because I smile all the time, it doesn't mean I don't know how to cry. Just because I don't agree with you, it doesn't mean I'm wrong.