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  • rhapsodist 5d

    Khat-e-ziist - line/ideology of life
    Zimn- connection
    Ilhaam- divine inspiration
    Muflis- poor
    Tavangaro- powerful/rich people

    Wrote after 82weeks, it's raw but I tried again.

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    ख़त-ए-ज़ीस्त मेरा एक पैग़ाम लिखना
    दर्द के ज़िम्न इश्क़ का भी नाम लिखना

    ढक दो इंक़लाब ख़ून के धब्बों से
    फिर भी करे सवाल तोह इल्हाम लिखना

    पायल दहलीज़ लांघ ले उड़ने को ही सही
    बदल बेड़ियों से उसको बदनाम लिखना

    मुफ़लिस के बर्तन महज़ अश्क़ों से ही भरे
    तवंगरो के हिस्से इतना आराम लिखना

    बिक जाती हैं बाज़ारों में रूह भी आज कल
    गर हो सके तो मेरी क़लम का दाम लिखना

  • rhapsodist 24w

    This post is to remind myself that good things happen, maybe a lil late but they do.


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    I can't change the fact that my paintings don't sell. But the time will come when people will recognize that they are worth more than the value of the paints used in the picture.

    Vincent van Gogh

  • rhapsodist 25w


    My anxiety is like a politician, a confident manipulator, a diligent liar, a poor promiser and as we have read, " bad politicians are elected by good people who don't vote" and I think I refused to vote it out every time I felt I couldn't do something, every time I felt I wasn't worth something, every time I failed at something and denied myself to accept and do better instead I called myself a loser, every time I made myself believe that loneliness is independence and traumas arent killing my childhood but making me stronger because when Andrei Tarkovsky said, "where childhood ends, poetry begins" I thought poems are making me tougher and I thanked traumas for making me mature instead of thanking myself that I survived them alone by the help of ink. I understood that I've to write because my childhood was a dense bunch of canopies that allowed no light pass through it, I knew I've to write until my brain stops fighting with me, even if I don't put my alphabets on paper, I knew I've to let the words come out of my mouth, somewhere in sense, someone would inhale them like poetry freshly written on a paper.
    1. I wouldn't call myself a poet but an observant who knows why a man in that cafe is drinking his coffee resting his teeth on the cup without making a weird sound that might attract even the slightest of attention, I know his jaws are clenched and his mouth tastes salt despite putting 6 sugar sachets in his coffee, he wants to be at home and make chai for himself sitting on his couch, slurping his tea in his old favourite cup which says "Be yourself" where he could avoid the world, where he doesn't have to be anxious why the barista wrote his name wrong, and how he spelt "latte" wrong, where no one's gonna laugh at him. He feels if there is a hurricane of salty ocean water in his mouth and his tooth is holding his jaw skin tightly in case it'd go away with the flow when teeth do not wanna leave their house, why should I?
    2. Why should I leave my house and it is weird because it is the same place where I wanna be and I don't wanna be, simultaneously, how to put it in words? "It is like the walls are climbers, I watch them grow, I watch them protect me but I know they are holding my legs by roots too." It makes me anxious that the scissors which I must use to get myself free from these vines are the ones that have been hurting my hands constantly defining my stress rashes and palm burns.
    3. My palms burn like someone had lit a constant Diya on it to convince God for ending my struggle leaving red rashes as a witness of the times when I clenched my fist too hard to let the emotion go, when I buried my sharp nails in my skin so that I don't fall asleep, I've been so cruel to myself that I don't feel sorry anymore but I deserve an apology from everyone who did hurt me and I need to forgive myself too
    4. I need to forgive myself for making the torture feel like a lifestyle as Susan Pease Bannit once said, " we often unconsciously stop feeling our trauma partway into it, like a movie that is still going after the sound has been turned off", and my therapist said the same thing that my subconscious mind thinks a lot, "A LOT", she emphasized. It sucks to know that my mind hates me, wants to trick me, wishes the worst for me, my brain, my subconscious state forces me to question my anatomy that I start feeling my heart is in my throat and any kind of input will turn out be a volcanic eruption. Raging thoughts of my brain collaborate with my digestive system and since I do not allow my feelings to leave through my mouth and eyes, they form an alliance and betray me. I vomit through my nose and mouth burning my food pipe leaving me for a minute of no oxygen shrinking my veins to death, I've faced death and I've survived it, no one is stronger than I am.
    5. No one is stronger than me, a woman who wore ripped jeans to show that her knees are bleeding and she isn't ashamed of it but proud of how she held herself strong when her own body was executing conspiracies against her. How the world claimed that it values her but instead made her feel vulnerable, excluded and abandoned. And now this world is gonna lean on a glass shelf outside the room of my achievements, drooling and sliding its hand on the wall in regret and cussing itself for not being a part of my journey or should I call it a success story? Or struggle, it is the same we often tend to ignore the pain in someone's life when it is the only truth, the only way to live glory.

    This is raw, might have typos :)

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    My anxiety is like a politician, a confident manipulator, a diligent liar, a poor promiser...

    ©rhapsodist / read caption

  • rhapsodist 42w

    "To suffer without complaining is the only lesson that has to be learned in this life", locked behind bars for being "mentally unstable" a man spoke words which a wise man could never. I know that you never wanted to hurt them, I know you were alone, I knew you felt pain more than them when you wrote," I wont hide from you that I would prefer to die than cause and bear so much trouble". How could you, how could a person who lives in this cruel society could absorb that much pain and still reflect swirling bring night through his teary eyes? At times I sit with my fingers dipped in paint, I touch blue and brush my fingers against the canvas, I feel the depth and calmness and I put my small fingers in white paint and draw small dots which always makes the painting more bright and never gets noticed, but the palette? The palette belongs to the yellow, the same paint you used to eat to colour your inner organs so that you could feel happiness, the same way you let a thieving crow eat your food. The loneliness and sadness is still there Vincent, everytime I wipe my tears I paint yellow on my face,everytime I feel alone I paint yellow on my doors in a hope that someone would come, everytime I write I paint yellow on my wounds, we all have our version of yellow. At present when I look through your eyes, I saw you had a vision of life, "the way to know life is to love many things" but I couldn't help but fall in love with you and your art. How terrible you would've felt when you offered a part of your body and got nothing but agony dripping down your sheets whether in colours or in blood and you knew that you were an artist for future, because "for wheat is wheat, even if people think it is a grass in the beginning" right? How to tell you all this? How to make this letter reach you?
    "I could've told you Vincent this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you", you lived your life in pain and now we could do nothing but admire what a soul you were and that scares me the most, you will never know how much people love you, that you are not alone anymore, that you own a museum now,that people still put flowers on your grave and it scares me how you would never know that your sight of life is a dream for many now. What is so beautiful in death, Vincent? That people start loving the ones who were never noticed? How you said, "a great fire burns withing me, but no one stops to warm themselves at it and passersby only see a wisp of smoke", people are now burning in that fire, this is what death can do and it amazes me how powerful it is and how scared humans are of it. I dont know about others but I can see your journey from pain to paint.
    I dont know anything with certainty Vincent, but the sight of your starry night always makes me dream.


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    "Though I'm often in the depth of misery, there is still calmness, pure harmony and music inside me"// a journey from pain to paint.

  • rhapsodist 45w

    ऐसे ज़िंदा रहने से तो बेहतर है कि मर जाते हैं
    साँसों के बोझ के तले गुज़र जाते हैं

    जिनको देखने से पहले आंखे बंद कर ली थी मैंने
    न जाने वही मंज़र ही क्यों साफ नजर आते हैं

    खैर इतने सबक ज़रूरी तो नही थे जीने को
    फिर भी जिंदा हैं तो कुछ और संवर जाते हैं

    सारे ख्वाब जो अधूरे मर जाते हैं सीने में
    दफनाए नही जाते तो आखिर किधर जाते हैं?

    खुशियाँ टिकती ही नही दो पल मेरे पास
    कम्बख़्त ये दर्द ज़माने भर के लिए ठहर जाते हैं।

  • rhapsodist 46w

    " lab-e-saahil samundar ki faraavaani se marr jaun,
    Mujhe vo pyaas hai ki shayad paani se marjaaun"

    The desire to taste death on my lips, as if someone caresses my lips with their fingers tracing the lines of my chapped skin, anatomizing my sins and kissing my bleeding lies but I felt death was never enough for me.

    " main itna sakht-jaan hun dam badi mushkil se niklega,
    Zara taklif badh jaaye toh asaani se marr jaun"

    The weight on my chest always felt light when I looked at the sky for the opportunities waiting for me. I felt optimism is all about fairy world, to believe in unicorns and surround yourself with pinks but I preffered burning my fist on the fire of facts, burning my fist to save the photographs(fact) from the fire of lusty wonderland. But sky, sky has no limit and it speaks, speaks in the form of clouds. The figures that formed on clouds or figures we wanted to assume in it were our imagination or a message? To break the code keep tracing the clouds, Everyone has a life some learn to fly, some find their own world in a confined place, some learn how to live alone but some-

    //ghanimat hai parinde meri tanhai samjhte hain,
    Agar ye bhi na ho toh ghar ki virani se marr jaun ~ Mehshar Afridi//

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    // You can be thirsty for death but death can never quench your thirst.//

  • rhapsodist 82w

    I understood that I'm not a child anymore when I stopped wishing on broken eyelashes. As a kid when the teacher asked me to write an essay over my family, I wrote what they did for me but never quoted my duties, every time I used to put the pencil in my mouth, biting it hard because I couldn't write the truth so I coated the words with sweetness, far away from existence. I made family paintings and excluded myself, a kid who dreamed of colouring the entire world was scared to doodle on the walls. As a kid, I imagined everything as art, I found everything fascinating and full of love until I saw benches scuffed with names, how lonely people are that they scribble their names on benches so that people remember them. I always found stars twinkling and optimistic until I realised they are lonely, bound to a certain cycle and place like me. I thought God loves painting and sometimes he joggled his brush resulting in rainbows but then I realised his favourite colour is red.
    I never looked back when I was learning how to ride a bicycle because I knew no one was there to hold me and maybe only this thought made me fall multiple times. I'm still looking for someone to help me tie my shoelaces whenever I've scrapped knees. I doodled with my shoes on the sand while sitting on the swings holding the rope too hard thinking of it as my father's finger, staying there in silence because no one was there to push.
    In school, I always dreamed of being a well-behaved kid like Oswald and jolly like Madeline but instead, I end up being Doofenshmirtz, alone and cranky. I always complained to my mother that my bag was too heavy, I'll get a lighter one when I enter my college because my shoulder hurts. It still hurts because of the responsibilities.
    What should I do with the prizes now? They don't make my mother feel proud of me anymore. Maybe they too have an expiry date.
    Isn't it strange that a girl who felt awful when Jhonny lied to his father about eating sugar now lies to her father randomly?
    I sometimes miss the innocence, the way I used to rotate 360° while sleeping(maybe fall sometimes too) but now I need pillows and a blanket, at least, I dream of falling or should I say nightmares?
    For me, love was never kissing my cheeks and making me pancakes but for me, love was finding my little broken black crayon which went under the furniture, giggling when it hits our head. For me, love wasn't loading me with gifts but a stranger holding me high so that I can hit the bell in the temple. I want my mother to look at me the same way she did when I return home with medals and trophies. Maybe now I want to be a loved kid, not a good child.

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    I understood that I'm not a child anymore when I stopped wishing on broken eyelashes, when I realised medals too have an expiry date.
    - rhapsodist, burning swings of the park

  • rhapsodist 84w

    When I talk about being depressed
    i never mean suicidal
    When I sit on heights
    I'm not there to jump
    But to feel what comes after this
    by not facing it actually
    I once heard cold breeze
    Whispering in my ears
    'there's no heaven'
    And the only thing that scares me the most
    Is future,
    in life,
    after death.
    My mother screams at me
    for leaning too much
    against the balcony,
    I'm not trying to fall
    But I'm not scared of falling
    I want to believe that there's
    A better place than this planet
    As I lean a little more
    Life is behind my back
    And freedom is at the front
    To choose is to die, anyway
    Slowly or suddenly.

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  • rhapsodist 85w

    Dida-e-taar - tearful eyes
    Dasht-e-shab - desert of night
    Manzil-e-aqal - limit of wisdom
    Ilm-daan - knowledgable

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    दीदा-ए-तर को कुछ ऐसे छुपाते हैं
    दर्द हँसता है तो हम भी मुस्कुराते हैं

    हम वो थे की जो फूलों से बचते फिरते थे
    आज जलते ख़तों को हाथों से बुझाते हैं

    दश्त-ए-शब को तो सूरज से मिटा दे लेकिन
    अंधेरे जुगनुओं से भी तो डर जाते हैं

    उनके पैरों को अश्कों से ज़मीन धोती है
    भूख-प्यास जिनके तलवों को जलाते हैं

    मौत को कहो ज़रा सी दस्तक दे कर देखे
    मेरे बच्चे कैसे घर को लौट आते हैं

    मंज़िल-ए-अक्ल इज़ाज़त नहीं देती वरना
    लोग सोगवार इल्म-दाँ खुद को बताते हैं

  • rhapsodist 89w

    I'm dropping some IG handles here, you can contact them for any kind of cyber issues /threat. If someone's harassing you, sending you inappropriate messages or morphing your pics you can ask them for help
    @/shubhamcybercop @/wallofshamereal @/youth_against_rape

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    "BOYS LOCKERROOM", Is this something new? Or something we never knew? If we go through the entire ss of the conversation they had before getting exposed or after that, we'll see they aren't guilty for whatever they said or did and then some of the girls who are defending them are part of that group too, seriously? Blame these rich retaards or their parents? Isn't it a responsibility of their parents to keep an eye on them? Not talking about this lockerroom incident but I've personally seen a bunch of losers like these. Seems like respecting ANYONE is a task nowadays. Isn't it a basic thing to do? Coming to feminism, this word these days is misemployed. Feminism these days is not about equality. If a man abuuses someone objectifying women isn't stopped by these feminists but they come up with some baap-bhai gaaliyan to serve equality*slow claps*. Feminists these days write huge asss paragraphs spreading awareness about vaginal problems and most commonly periods, whom are you teaching this? Those educated people having an account on Instagram and have an access to Internet? Or are you aprising men? trust me they know more about our body. Ever had a thought of spreading word among illiterates or least, maid in your house? Isn't it a question why every other female comedian is confined to bo*bs? Not having vaginal hygiene is the fifth biggest cause of death in women. A maid in our locality takes her daughter with her on work, when my mother asked her about this she told us, "the place where I live do not have doors or locks, I can't leave my daughter there alone, I can not trust anyone, Men of my family are alcohol addicts, they can't take care of themselves how am I supposed to leave my daughter?"
    One of my friend shared a ss of a woman(he wasn't defaming her) calling an old man" debaucheee" just because he commented on her picture that "she is cute" and the same woman in another ss was thanking this guy for the same kind of comment. I remember a video went viral on social media of a woman who asked waiters to raape these girls for their dressing, whatever that woman said was wrong but uploading that video was a right decision? That old lady started getting rape threats, rapee for raape? What if instead of that old lady a man would've done the same? And it is quite surprising that these women have never been through harassment, why not the same outrage everytime for everyone? Isn't going through some legal action is a better choice instead of risking her life. 2 months ago a bunch of teen passed some comments which I don't want to put here, I did not react which was my fault and the demand of the situation as well. I did not knew how to react or I should say I couldn't react at that moment and obviously I was not ready for a fight,we usually ignore but why? Because men are not taught to take rejection and we are not ready to face the consequences. We grow up watching shit shows like splitsvilla which completely destroyes the idea of love or roadies, "it is her choice"
    Or how can I forget tiktok videos? Check the comment sec on any post of munmun dutta, what is her fault? Go search any famous tiktokers id and check the tagged pics and captions as well, 12-13 y/o chappri boys posting pics with a caption "mohabbat thi isliye jaane diya, zidd hoti to baahon me hoti", kyu beta? Tumse chocolate udhaar leke gayi hai vo? And how can we forget bhojpuri songs?
    There's one more point which I want to bring forward, If a woman's views do not match with yours or she's stupid and dumb, shut her mouth with facts instead of calling her "prostituute", it is quite easy for men these days to put a vituperative statement on the character of a woman .Recently I came across a man who tweeted all women only cry, have fat ass and text 10men at a time, surely debating with him went in vain, some are moroons for a reason. I've always stood against such comments and will always do. And a special message for women out there, support each other, stop bitching, stop calling her ugly, stop bodyshamming.
    Boys lockerroom isn't something new but these raape plans were shocking and some legal actions will only scare groups like these but the cornerstone is the mentality. Women should stop acting as if they are unfortified and an easy target, buck up, show them that you can punch them too if it is necessary.