Photo by Maria Orlova from Pexels

What is human life without losses?
The shedding of skin worn over years
And forgetting its colors
Yet smiling
Yet strolling like we’re living the same life,
Alive,
It’s strange we feel no pain in the most painful deaths
Animals of emotions
Vain.

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(17/02/2022 - 2:28)

Photo by Poppy Thomas Hill from Pexels

Tonight, I fight with memories

The news ones

The massively crowded bits of stories

Surrounding the edges of my heart and brain

Encircling the ones I want to retain

And the smoke that arises from all the rounds

Hide rightly the ones I always wanted to treasure

They say we forget things,

As memories are a temporary illusion

And once we walk away from a place or situation

The memories reach the colossal space of another dimension

Where the difference between dreams, imagination, and reality is all blurry

Tonight I rebel against the pattern,

My memories have tricked me

And I have been observing but couldn’t alter for long

I’ll pave my way through the smoke of burned ones

Touch inside flames

And bring out the ones,

Memories of which are never a memory.

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Waiting for someone to love you is like

fascinated eye repeatedly scanning the perfect paragraph

in a newly started book,

pausing and savoring meanings of the words

wishing that it get ingrained in some confined parts of the heart forever,

while being indifferent to all other lines

and unbothered what the story holds ahead.

From the heart

14 stories

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Photo by Jill Wellington from Pexels

What is the measurement of a happy life?

Is it the smile we share with our loved ones cherished to our hearts enriching the soul?

Is it the dreams we see, believe, and for which some live?

Is it the profound understanding of human to human connection?

The friendships we make or is it the serene chasm of nature’s reflection?

What can measure happiness? What can make it absolute?

Infinite and variable, and yet the cosmic, through one’s eyes, shareable.

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Photo by Tejas Prajapati from Pexels

The flock, they thought, was never a home
once upon a time, when you didn’t hear the moan,

The flying and crying and living alone
nowhere to go, and the path never shown
breaking of clouds, the thunderous tone
shattered wings on unknown stone
melancholy creeping for the habits, they were prone
Sadness they borrowed from all out of zone
no footprints to weave another nest shone
but broken birds do get home
broken birds too get home

With the agony of time, they groan
for the loss of their timid yet strong bone
far away, isolated, when their world was blown
all the sufferings made their strength better hone
They wait, they get up, and little after flown
The blessing they called, oblivious thrown
the moment so down was their bluestone
because broken birds do, get home
broken birds too get home.

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