Insecure people, insecure poems

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  • shrey2310 16h


    love the yellow shade and the hues,
    like an orange sky with some blues.
    among the dark alleys, ride your soul
    be the light your eyes can't see
    with every possible reasons to hold back
    and every excuses to not be happy,
    smile with your grief, which isn't everlasting


  • shrey2310 1w

    Misleading. Harsh. Illogical. Soothing

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    Empty grounds,
    empty fields
    cold breeze
    and wet streets
    evenings like a
    dark morning
    and the night
    will be darker
    colder than usual
    and muddy like
    never been

    my skin speaks for me
    as I am shivering
    yet i sit on my couch
    looking at this scenery
    of how darkest of hours
    are the silence we forget.
    as the first drop of rain
    falls on my forehead
    it brings back thoughts
    left in some corner of my head,
    reminds me of
    how i leave things
    abandoned, unspoken, unheard
    and eventually, mistaken.
    i call it thinking,
    a little too much.

    memories fade, as they usually do,
    well the thoughts doesn't.
    carvings on a rock, you know?
    the drops and the thoughts
    pervious enough to get in me.
    it shapes for who we are
    and who we can be.
    so today i decide to be a liar
    who lies, reviving poetry
    from its core, yet dying
    for each word carved
    on this very stone that
    lies within me

    it's been so long since
    i last wrote, and it's been
    a while since my last poem.
    poems? i question myself,
    as i see myself lying
    once again, just like this time.
    Hidden reality among lies
    are poems that won't rhyme.
    as i smile, fakingly genuine,
    I see myself betwixt the words
    and i listen to these voices
    that these crevices hold
    and all they speak, is what
    i never spoke, because as
    the statement goes,

    Hidden reality among lies
    are the poems that won't rhyme.....


  • shrey2310 3w

    Any prompts you can suggest?

    Maybe I'll just try to write a poem or something!

  • shrey2310 4w

    (in continuation from the previous part)

    Few days later, I got to know that he went to nearby city for some reasons that i didn't know. Delivery system wasn't too common then and i wonder if you've ever heard it but some of the things were also delivered with the help of buses. Yeah, right bus. So all you gotta do was to trust the stranger, fill him up with the required money and just make sure you don't forget to take his details just in case something goes wrong.

    Yet again it was a sunny day that time. Exploring the vast ground was on. Later when i came back to my home at evening i saw this green coloured, breathless guy, a bicycle. That had all the wrappers stuck on it except few and how many of you had got this advice of not putting those cover away from the new things just so they never get covered with dust? I got one. Followed it for few weeks and then the advice was just a mere piece of words that never came to my head untill today. So i rode my bicycle right after that. Still scared to pedal because that bicycle was huge. I managed it well to not fall off this non-living beauty. On my way back home, we both had our crash landing. The first scratch over it came with not so deep scar of my left arm.

    Years passed by. For my childhood wish of owning a bicycle was fulfilled, i managed to live that wish for just 2 years maybe and then it tasted this darkness of being forbidden. It was left untouched for the next few years. On my way to school I'd often look at it but never really felt to ride it again. I moved on to scooty then.

    That never hit my mind untill today. What if someone takes that bicycle away from me? You see how exaggerated this story has become now and i feel, to not continue this, i better end this with this dilemma that i had today. Well not exactly a dilemma I'd say, you know people embrace absence more than the presence of anything or anyone. All these years who'd have remembered the rusty front forks that have sustained the dirt, spokes that are little bend, brakes that may require some repairing and numerous such fractures that are yet to be discovered. Well all those defects would soon be repaired for sure, tires may find a new alleys, maybe not too dirty this time. Maybe the new owner would not have as many crash landings as we had.

    Well I've learnt this lesson of moving on a long ago and even this time it's the same lesson that will be revised by me. Do you guys ever had a lesson or a poem, even a prose that would've made a permanent place in your head that you often remember it, time to time. Such lessons do have a special essence that makes you f e e l every time you remember them. I guess one such lesson is moving on to me, always a pain to revise.

    So this time, the weather was cold and I wonder how many lessons has this winter witnessed. Flowers having late mornings, heartbreaks, meeting of two imperfect people and what not, well my story can make a difference i guess, of how materials too can have a living space in your life.

    Anyways, so here rushing up to end this mere piece, i better not lengthen it anymore. My cousin, a mischievous small guy who always had these crazy set of thoughts always ready in his head that always wanted to go as fast as he can, make some stunts out of whatever he has, sometimes skateboards, roller-skates and this time, it'd be a bicycle and being old gives him a good right to demolish it to its pinnacle but still with a faltered hope that may never come out to be my reality, i just asked him to not to forward this cycle to anyone else, rather return it to me when the time comes.

    And with the keys of the lock went away that rusty bicycle that was well cleaned after a long time, filled with oil on the required parts, chains tight, pedals changed to new ones and the seat was changed too. It was good to see that atleast someone might take care of it, unlike me who abandoned it. With all those strings of memories that kept vibrating, the tires kept moving till the bicycle disappears and all those living moments that a non-living thing gave me, stayed with me. Secure,
    intact and

    (the end)

    I guess i messed up with the ending, it feels a little rushed and not in a proper way. Feel free to pour down your views. Criticism serves the best, heh.

    Thankyou everyone for the support you've shown. That really helped. Being new to this side of writing and then coming with this piece actually brought a lot of nervousness but I'm glad i got good response over this. The comments acted as a booster, haha. Thankyou, means a lot :)

    30.12.2021, Thursday


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    Crash landing - 02

    /with the resting sun and the disappearing bicycle/

  • shrey2310 4w

    So it all started with a sudden urge, a strong desire that came up to my brain and let me tell you how a kid's brain is filled with tons and tons of wishes and not-so-real stuffs that now you'd wonder if you ever thought something like that ever in your childhood. Of all those wishes and desires and, haha, again not-so-real stuffs, i guess this was the one that climbed up to my little brain with all of its vigour to make me speak out about it. So I looked at my small cycle which practically makes it my first cycle but i never had good memories with it. So i looked at it and realised how all these years I've stopped drinking milk that my mom asks me to, ignoring the fact that I've grown smart enough to trick her into believing me drinking the milk. How the TV channel that broadcasts doraemon has now been left aloof for i always refuse to watch that show, ignoring the fact that i shifted to Courage The Cowardly Dog then. My shoes have gone smaller, socks fits loose now indicating that I've grown up. You see? I'm a grown up now. So why still that small cycle? Well the question remained unanswered but the other outcome of the question didn't remain unnoticed and i said to my father,

    "I want a bicycle"

    "But you already have one."

    "Really? You'll see", mischief was a hidden skill in me.

    The very next day i ended up having a crash landing. And on the other day, my cycle had a crash landing. On the third day, we both were tired of each other so we left each other midway between my playground and my home. 4th day came as a surprise because someone returned it back to me and thanks but no thanks to me who usually wrote his name everywhere. And then the urge nearly kept dying, acceptance of being adopted slowly started becoming true because that's what you can think of when your parents refuse you to buy you things. Atleast that damn Indian serial maker used to show that. Duh

    My friend had one. That cycle which i always wanted. Though i never knew how to ride it, i never tried it. So he had two cycle one old and one new. One for his brother, one for himself. I always used to play with him, well the cycle was enough for me to stay and luckily he was my best friend so we managed to ride cycles, go on not-so-long rides which then used to be so long according to us. As if a biker going on a real long drives, sunny days, cold drinks added (which actually were liquor but our little brain wasn't too close to be adult or to be known of that fact then, so we settled with cold drinks). Well we never had those cold drinks but a bottle of water was a good alternative I'd say. Atleast we pretended it.

    Though my urge was weak but as we say how kids usually say whatever they want to, that one statement you get to hear when your small brother says you some real ugly stuff. "Baccha hai, jaaane do". So we all were those bacchas at some point. So i kept asking. A bicycle. A bicycle. A bicycle. My father kept saying, yes, yes and yes. Kept delaying it. Well my suspicion kept growing too then, am i adopted? Well this can have one separate story. But anyways, i never stopped chirping about my wish to have a bicycle. And the time when no one used to be rich, or poor, i guess it makes sense to say that buying stuffs in home wasn't that common as it is now. A lot has changed these days which we better not talk about here. So a bicycle wasn't a big deal but not a small one either. My father always had this habit of delaying things which I've successfully inherited I'd say. But he always managed to deliver it on a final deadline, well I'm trying to inherit this quality, heh. Soon maybe.

    One fine day, sun rays were warming, sky was blue with spots of white clouds, the vast ground was ours and a big, big tree in the corner served a good spot for any bike rider to have a shade under and maybe just take sips of his "cold drink", haha. So like some usual days, me and my friend had our rides and now when i narrate it, it all seems so boring, conquering those vast ground which has turned small today or maybe we turned into giant trees from being those small plants. Riding all day and resting under the tree was just a pleasure that we miss these days. This time it was bit different though. I saw my father watching us. I guess he always did, it's just me who saw him for the first time.

    I never cried for anything (well crying for a video game isn't crying, that's a trap to fulfill wishes, know that). Was i always an understanding guy? Maybe. But that night when i slept near him, when hugging your father wasn't such a greatness then, it still isn't but many of us miss it, well some of my friends do. Generation gap, maybe? Or just a line of respecting silence develops between this bond of a father and a son that we often fail to erase. But anyways, i still remember that night because i shared my first silence with my dad. Silence meant not to be broken but to be understood. But we never really care for such silence, atleast my younger version never did so i still asked him where's my cycle and received silence which then appeared to be cold but now when i think of it, i guess that was a warm touch of maturity by his side. Absence of words was the presence of feelings. I bet he wanted to say how those fatherly feelings inside him wants to be heard but that was never taught to him. Not in school, not in life. He never got a medium to express, maybe? I feel lucky for me though, here i am writing things about a bicycle, makes it funny when you think of it. People write about the first rain, last lover, broken trust, healing hearts and what not. And here you read this, a bicycle.

    (next part to be uploaded tomorrow)

    So the year's finally going to end soon and i guess there won't be a better chance for me to post something that i never usually write which is a story. So this is going to be a very short, simple story. (of just 2 parts btw)
    I'm a complete rookie at this part of writing so i started with my own experience, will be glad if you spam the comment section with criticism. Share if you like this.

    Also please if you can suggest any title to this. Thankyou

    29.12.2021, wenzday.


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    Crash landing - 01

    /and the urge to have a bicycle climbed up my head/

  • shrey2310 6w

    If you're typing a comment to congratulate, you better delete that. It's fictional. Also i know no one's listening so who cares. Read. Enjoy.

    It flies. It rises. It falls. Silently.

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    Moments are precious, aren't they?

    /tale of a phoenix/

    So i don't really own a diary and it's funny that whenever i scroll down to my posts and see myself making poems related with it. But then, it's a good lie which i feel no ashamed of. I'm a poet after all

    fake hopes and lies are my muse, i guess.

    Moments are precious, aren't they? And i know it has a very obvious answer but my inner self feels it really hard to question it today. Moments are precious, aren't they? How time flies from our fists. A butterfly that we always desire to hold yet we don't, won't they die if we do so? Well, that's how you kill moments, i don't know where is this going or maybe these thoughts are just making me say things that won't ever make sense to anyone. And i guess that makes this piece with a good set of words that flow really well in your mind, do they? Planning of things, holding on to moments that we had last year. Things pass, time passes.

    My sister has finally found a new journey in her life. She's finally getting married and if you ask me if she ever loved a guy then maybe I'll fail to answer it because all she ever valued were her books and her urge to conquer things in her life never really died. And why would they? Society kept adding fuel to this little flame and she knew how to survive and fight and to conquer despite receiving hundreds of burns and scars. Phoenix burn to live, and i see her fly high today. Isn't this too straightforward when i start with setting up a background and suddenly switch to this very topic, that she's finally going to marry. I wish i was this straightforward whenever it came to expressing things. Love finds its way to travel. Love is felt. But isn't it a language? And we never talked that way then. That's how bittersweet some relations are. So the time i forget these feelings, i feel to confess every of it to this dia-, i mean to this piece actually. Maybe I'll never read this again or will i? I'll answer this myself someday. English is a good language, a perfect one for my emotions to talk actually. But then, we often to fail to listen.

    I see a phoenix that burns and knows to burn, an angel that lives and knows to revive dead hearts. I see an ocean that roars and knows to calm an empty, chaotic mind, a shade of darkness to enlighten the dark corners of someone's heart. I see a beauty. I see a mess. I see a teenage crying over her 12th's result, a woman climbing new heights. I see some burns on her fingertips and that's just a part of what she always faced. Among all those people, all those crowd, i see her. My sister. And right where my words end, i can hear a silence that approaches this very moment. I see her eyes filled with love. And if this is how a language of love is, then today, we're talking. If not our lips move or we fail to speak, it's our eyes and this very silence that delivers way too much within a moment that won't stay because, moments are precious. Aren't they?


  • shrey2310 8w

    /good things, take time/

    Before i start let me just think of who actually my audience is. Well that makes it funny and unusual because i don't know where my audience is. Maybe in some corners that has webs and websters. A note to my audience should begin with a big thankful note of how they were grateful to me but i guess I'll write a prose today and mind not the sombre it may hold or satire that may attack you.

    Beginning with silence that listens every of my poem, my proses and my musings that are left for no one but just me. Chaos has left me long ago, since the time i left thinking as a part of my writing. All that comes is from the heart and dies there itself. Silence that hasn't left me, not even the time when the words were to die. Silence that has sharpened every aches and cries has also enhanced the way i react to joy and happiness. Of how a short, simple smile can make my day, looking in mirror can bring certain realisations that are positive so far, touch of a maple leaf gives a warm hug and the broad tree under the bright sky gives me a sense of certainty. It all blooms in silence, in the lap of silence. My poems they talk in silence and this silence listens to them.

    With the bright sky that reminds me of how fortune has its own vivid forms, it's the grey clouds that brings me an aura or just zephyr of uncertainty of whether i hold on to my feelings today or should i spill it out to my beloved audience. And these clouds are one of them. There are confessions that are hidden, explorations that are incomplete and a destiny yet to be discovered. Should i praise these clouds for holding my words amidst the void or the big holes that these clouds are afraid of. What if these holes grow big enough one day and be a reason for these clouds to fade. But then, i feel my words do comfort them, lying in mid of those voids. Fading is a part of process that shouldn't come early. But neither are the clouds nor are my poems are provided with this wealth to stay for too long. They fade way too quickly.

    Though these nights haven't been a good audience to me and being honest, i guess it's just me who never felt to recite these feelings twisted in every possible way, veiled with Metaphors and filled with oxymoron. I don't feel like confessing my heart out to this pen and paper at this part of time but I still feel lucky to have these nights for listening all my thoughts, chaos and musings that sleeps with me but never stays when I'm awake. But these nights they remind me of my confessions that i refused to write. These nights reminds of the raw feelings that i hide in my poems and they laugh whenever i recite them in front of my audience. Often my audience fail to peek, of what lies beneath these veils of poetic devices but these nights that has all my confessions, it laughs.

    So as to conclude my prose, i guess I've to manage it with the same phrase that we're not used to. Thankyou.

    I'm more used to 'its okay's than 'your welcome's but today when no one's around, i can hear silence whispering. I can see clouds waving me a goodbye. I can feel the night caressing my beating heart and i can see all of them say nothing but their actions speaks for them and i feel that's my greatest reward. To be appreciated by the nature. To be read by no one but the sky, the clouds, the silence. To speak when no one's listening.

    So thankyou for your patience, for your time.

    Your short-words guy


    connect, comment, criticise

    As the title suggests, good things take time. Heh
    Thankyou for being a part of my audience today, dear WN. Thanks for the repost :")

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    A note to my audience

    *I could've managed with a good title but i guess this is how you attract your audience these days and tell them, "Howdy fella, I've wrote something over today's challenge" *
    Please read :)

  • shrey2310 9w


    inspired from the anime, Your Name

    cliché as you say

    connect, comment, criticise :")

    I feel bad for what i did kuch din pehle. I wrote this prose. I was gathering inspiration to write it since a long time. So an insta post was a perfect one. I used it in the prose. Posted in mirakee. Everyone read it. I didn't mention that this particular thought or actually the whole idea/quote was taken from so n so post. Basically I stole that quote in my eyes. It was all normal untill i got a comment that appreciated that very part of the prose. Writing a big comment over that part. That made me really sad. Because that part didn't really belong to me. Anddd, it's not that i wanted to actually steal and make use of that. But i just didn't do it keeping in mind that I'm not gonna get a respond anyway. Also that no one notices such small parts. Complex things are always ignored, maybe? But after everything, someone noticed it, appreciated it. But i couldn't keep this in me anyway, i wanted to share this publicly in mirakee but that didn't feel right to me.

    And all this story is true because that exact part is this one. It belongs to a post from IG, as mentioned. The part of 28th and 29th Feb isn't mine.


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    /to someone who knows it/

    29th February, 2020

    "Will you miss me?"

    She asks me

    I saw her , wiping them way before the time i see it, like she always does. And it's not just this time that I'm the reason for her tears, it's always me. Roses hurt too. Her eyes had different intention than her words that felt too soft for a tough girl like her, someone who can hit a crap out of a guy. The sternness in her voice was similar to the tears in her eyes, , ' , .

    "But often some things doesn't go the way you want them to", I say to myself.
    "then maybe just hold on to each other, till we can....", i remember the time she said this. And the memories just shower in.

    and then this question, "Will you miss me?"

    under this veil of questions laid several answers that she already knows but the only thing that stood before the question mark, was "me". She wanted me to answer, i wanted her to listen. But of whatever we wanted, it all seemed too good to happen.

    , and then her suddenness to hide in every possible way. How the box that she held close to her will stay away now, with me

    "And what do you even hide in it?", I asked her the time when i found it hidden under her bed.

    she looks in my eyes and says, ""

    and this very silence speaks everything then. As if a zephyr that stays, that vanishes. And maybe that was me.

    Time is relative and the same, old theory that suggests how it slows down when you don't want it and does the exact opposite when you want it. And in the very next second, the train arrives...

    , , .

    Her heart, more like a mosaic filled with crevices and her trust more like a labyrinth, a puzzle that seems impossible to solve.

    There's a that stays betwixt her diary, filled with nothing but , maybe? Atleast that's what we think, right? Being scared of things, if they pierce right through someone's heart, knowingly or unknowingly. I see, that she believes that the clover will bring her lost luck back to her. I remember slipping that i love, with the clover leaf. If not me, then the leaf might stay with her. If not me, then maybe my memories will be faithful to her.

    I'll miss her for all the surprises that she delivered me with. Questions must be asked by me, if she misses me, for there seems less things done for her, than me.

    Anyways, in the hurry to reach the train, i again see her lifting her stuffs and there she stands, .

    "Will you miss me?", i ask her

    "You'll stay in my diaries", she answers

    And the train departs, my heart too. We were like the weekends that stood together, the only change now will be, her being my 29th February that I'll be waiting for and I'll be her 28th February, that she keeps waiting for.

    Too close to imagine, too far in reality.


  • shrey2310 10w


    today, when the early arrival of winter brings me those dry winds, it's the late departure of the forlorn rain that again falls. I picture myself under a white sky, clouds that are darker and a tree that has shed all its leaves and when it rains now, will it bloom again someday? Tallest of the tree, lacks the flower. Smallest of the plant, lacks respect. Brightest of the star, tends to break and dimmest of the cloud, today, tends to stay. Aren't we strange? Of how we admire perfection that hardly stays, darkness that lightens our world of poesies, the cold wind brings you a warm whisper and the sunlight that beautifully cuts the sky brings us fear if it might not really connect. Maybe darkness, maybe imperfections, maybe gelidity of a night. Maybe they connects us? Perfectly.

    and today when i sit here on my sofa, where i peek from the window where the leaves fall, every now and then. My sweater calms my nerves, keeps me away from the goosebumps. There's my *carvaan* playing songs of revival and the lyrics goes like,

    /tere hi zikr, ki jasoosi
    meri khamoshi hai
    Rahu mai chup kyu,
    baatuni meri khamoshi hai/
    (lines from a song, Meri Khamoshi hai, by Anupam Roy)

    and the very instance, i realise how this rain flourishes the silence, evokes a suddenness, alters the weather and..... and brings back to me what I've lost. I stop to seek.

    i used to think that I've lost it long back when my betrayal to my heart wasn't much to be bothered and acceptance of the evils in my head became a regular pattern then. For a guy like me who can't even plan, today walks in a pattern. Not untill today. I accepted my devils then or rather, I've accepted whatever these evils said.

    "Acceptance is running your arms to all the miseries and a new start to a life"

    but certainly the acceptance that i had, wasn't the one to be appreciated because these demons in my head seemed to choke me to dead and finally when no where seemed the light, I realised, that I've lost it.

    I've lost it,
    amidst the heap of torn pages from my diary which laid forbidden, forlorn in some corner of my rusty shelf,
    betwixt the hopes for one step above and a fall to the base,
    between my muse and my head
    in this chaotic realm where i was the king, yet being controlled
    and somewhere between what i want and what i must, things splattered and it, obviously, wasn't artistic at all.

    E̲a̲c̲h̲ ̲s̲t̲r̲o̲k̲e̲s̲ ̲o̲f̲ ̲a̲n̲ ̲a̲r̲t̲i̲s̲t̲ ̲s̲e̲e̲m̲e̲d̲ ̲l̲i̲k̲e̲ ̲a̲ ̲r̲o̲u̲g̲h̲ ̲s̲c̲r̲i̲b̲b̲l̲i̲n̲g̲ ̲w̲h̲i̲c̲h̲ ̲w̲a̲s̲ ̲t̲h̲e̲ ̲o̲n̲l̲y̲ ̲t̲h̲i̲n̲g̲ ̲i̲ ̲w̲r̲o̲t̲e̲ ̲t̲h̲e̲n̲.̲ ̲

    It's all about the believe in myself which believed that my words are nothing but just like falling leaves on a windy day that will fall and rest on the loamy soil, where my other poems died. Or rests?

    This rain today reminds me of my first poem while the soils that's vanishing, leaves which are falling, dampening and draining reminds me of continuity even when things seems to end. This gelidity defines my time, but that's not my muse because the warmth that i wear on my skin is the poem that I write. This day defines a revival and the night feels too late because i see the clouds sliced to half and the rays starts to pierce through them, rays of a sun that is mine. And right when the lyrics strikes again, i guess that's when it's time that i stop seeking and i start today with my the torn, forbidden pages and poetries to be accepted, to be caressed. To be scribbled before i find just another reason to not do so. To fall, not to flourish, perish or relinquish but just to stay like a motionless plant that lacks respect, but not the attention.


    connect, comment, criticise :")

    #like in the BG


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    winter lays fresh
    rain arrives like a hope
    like falling leaves on a windy day
    my poetries and my prose,

    that hasn't yet died.
    and it rests over my skin
    like a blanket of dreams
    bringing me warmth
    and a place to hide.


  • shrey2310 10w

    dark enough to absorb yours'

    when you feel too much
    and speak none of it
    ask your self to cry
    because whatever you write
    is it enough?

    150 posts, finally! I've nothing to say tho, feels the same. None to listen either. Also that i noticed I've completed 150 posts 3-4hr later after posting ��
    Who cares anyway ��


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    I feel tired. Tired.
    Of the sceneries that i describe,
    darkness that connects,
    happiness that hides,
    optimism that's lost,
    thoughts that are infinite,
    doubts of mine and
    all those weeping and crying.
    Of every judgements of
    what i write and every hope
    to be better.
    Climbing up the hill and
    falling with the ladder,
    losing all the vigour
    still pretending to be a feather
    that fall to rise again

    someday, When?

    for a while, I wonder
    for a while, I write
    night's yet to come
    and I'm yet to smile.

    I'm tired of poems
    that make me confess.
    Often things that are appreciated
    aren't always fake
    aren't always same.
    I'm tired of talking
    about my life and me,
    to write and to be written.

    am i tired of writing
    or I'm tired of me?