What ifs and should haves

I wish I could write fiction I wish I could craft some fantasy Some unreal pretending to be real A creation I can run to, the imagination I can own So that all the unloved, all the unseen all the unsaved Can be brought back The arguments can be erased, the hatred can be omitted I can forget the part where love ceased, where it all ended The nothing doesnt exist then Someone exists, someone will be there, something will remain And losing it should be impossible It should be there till the end The end can be soon, but 'the something' will stay All assured, everything sure, I will be understood then It can read my smile, if the smile is real. To know my anger is only grief To takeaway all the grief Where love is not stopped, where replacement is impossible  Where the curves and twists and dislikes are not hidden Coz in fiction is truth. Coz what's real is unbearable. The real is painful, it aches, it lies The fiction is mine, only if I cud have one. I ...

Tuberculosis is all around here, the very place we exist,whereever we are. It destroys all our designs, affects many things, it keeps us away from our work, people, specially from 'then friends',  relationships, career. Even takes away all the smiles, replace them with grins, unpleasant ones. It involves oppression, for you will be shrunk to the very definition of the illness, it involves people passing comments, uneasy questions, some will appear as saviors, some give motivational speeches , the illness has everything, the power, the reach,the bacteria got a way with everything that happens with you. When the patient takes the responsibility of sticking to the treatment, to the very traumatizing treatment, when we mask ourselves to not let that bacteria go anywhere else but get killed inside us what we get in return is a long list of wrong assumptions about the same. The medical reason for physical isolation maybe unavoidable but what cannot be understood is the mental isol...

They couldn't  write it all Just so how much,  they decide Coz writer is the word, the box But wat they havent written Are stones in her coat's pocket Drowned. Burnt with no trace Hung, a letter remained Dead. Coz dead ones outnumber But where they thinking about death in detail so much? Or was the only aim  to not live anymore So as to unsave some love So as to not hinder some ways So as to not be laughed at So as to stop the pain Or maybe they were all murders, Just so we didn't know that proved deaths are still not proved Maybe its you who killed, maybe you are in hiding coz u know u murdered So u join when they say, they killed themselves But wen they wer alive they said each other to not die anymore. You still killed them and now when I say they need to be heard, you say, cant hear, they r dead. U don't say u killed, u say they are dead. But why did u kill?

I often get allured by the weather, caught in the moment and the least of my concern is copying their beauty into words I know once I do that, the moment"s something else, it's taken frm me forever I want me to long for nature, not enough any day.  I often close my eyes tight to think I push myself to think new words and imageries that may likely term my use of words poetic I look at the flowers, the trees, the scenes around To draw their essence right into words. They should be older than words, coz I can never describe things around with mere words. Well I could put  In words things as old as me may be Like my emotions, things in my head, it's only 23 like me Peolpe like that. They tell you if you cud explain wats going on with you,  they can help. So I decided to put my 23yr old experiences into  short essays  and explained it to them And they understood. They said, we are all struggling, I wasn't pleased much with that answer, coz if they di...

There is this guy who urges me to write about him day and night He thinks I love to write and I am never tired of it Coz he knows why I write and why I don't He cannot accurately pick the genre, as there is none I just swiped away his text msg notification It said 'please write something for me' I want to tell him, I do not write I keep reminders to write, like this one And you mistake it for a poem Last day I had long walks with him in his dream he said So that's worth a poem he thinks Now I am conscious to write about this guy Coz he thinks I have beautiful things to write I want to tell him I only write reminders these days I forget about it and it becomes a poem, such a shame These days it's hard to even set reminders and Now I have paused opening his chat log I am afraid to tell him I do not write poems I want to tell him I write reminders these days Like this one.

I might know why you are sad I know why you think there's little time to act I know why you feel like you aren't working enough I am also aware that some days you curse yourself for resting too much You do not know what to write Though they say write what you feel, you do not know how you feel Another person told you its normal and you find it cliche You wish to film the best laughter, the ugly cries and some original stories Despite being equipped you think it's complex to handle Inspite knowing techniques you need closure from things you don't know. You miss people whom you haven't met You yearn to film stories not told yet. You wish to write, to voice, to scream To run, to travel, to laugh, to fall in loving arms, to cuddle, to love, to kiss I know why you feel this way, I guess you might be restless that you feel this way. But trust me, in this hustle, you feel human. And it matters. Love. It's okay to feel this way.

When you reach a point of going any far just to survive long Not for a vacation, not a celebration, not even a normal rest But just to sustain more, to live,  that's when memories spiral That's also when your head stay firm and realize how delicate every part of our body is Despite having many layers ;our skin tear, in spite of those membranes; we get heartaches This is when you realize how fragile human mind is, how we could breakdown with just a little too much pressure When it stops, it's gone. Then the person becomes invisible. The idea of presence doesn't occur here But hatred stays, insensitive it is, destructive it is That is when I want you to sow some seeds of love Without any frowns, too many hugs and smiles That is when ur presence is appreciated, Gone but remembered they say, not forgotten they say But their art excludes us, they own politics, they build the power Sensitive minds are laughed at, offending and violent  they create a new norma...