Me and myself (12/8/2026)
Those days, I heard some bold voices
from within.
Strange, but it sounded just like me.
Curious, I wanted to embrace that voice,
even though those days were arduous for me.
The voice was appealing and healing.
I met my inner self.
She is brave, beautiful, and bold.
She gave me facts when I complained.
She showed me the root of my worries
when I stood clueless and confused.
And she reminded me of my greatest asylum—
who gives a reason for my existence.
Thanks to my inner bold girl,
who taught me that no one but me
can help myself.
How I wondered(14/8/2026)
Sunny days, morning chirps,
The bits of lights falling down
I went outside barefoot.
Small grains nudging my foot,
Fallen leaves embracing my foot steps.
And there I saw some one working very hard.
They were lucky to kiss the flowers,
And steal the little tressure from them.
Yes, the tressure, the tressure of sweetness.
Changes(17/8/26)
Once she admired the changes,
She opened new rooms for the changes,
She embraced the changes,
The changes were changing,
But she was the one constant.
She did know but never dared to believe.
But that cost her a lot.
Changes sometimes feel absurd,
But changes are a human trait.
She lacked that sense to know that,
She was the one who could not accept those.
May be the mind tuned her like that,
To believe everything,
But the day when she found this,
She took the book and tore the old pages.
Now it's going to be fresh blank pages,
That she could decide what to fill..
Distractions
What keeps the mind
from its purpose?
Nothing but thoughts.
Thoughts, they come like a thief,
Quietly,
And what he does is steal your time.
He will steal them and use them,
Wait, is it for something productive?
Never, he make you draft stories,
You forget they were whispers of the mind,
never echoes of reality.
You give them life,
until you forget they were never alive..
Where reality once reigned,
imagination now wears the crown.
If the story hurts,
put down the pen.
You are the storyteller.
You don't have to live
every story you write.
Be gentle with the storyteller.
Tell it that its stories are beautiful.
But somewhere along the way,
while creating them,
you forgot the one character
who mattered most—you.
You became the supporting role
in a story that was supposed to be yours.
They are only whispers
from the rival within,
weaving one thought into another
until you are tangled
in a world that never existed.
It feels creative,
because imagination gives it colour.
It feels real,
because you keep breathing life into it.
And before you realize,
reality is sitting in the back seat,
while imagination has taken the wheel.
But don't let it drive.
Let the reality win over your rumination.
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