English
You'll never die if you fall in love with a poet, They make your life so mesmerizing by their thoughts like a shining star, They will wrap you up by their attractive words, They will show you to the world of love , happiness and euphony printed in line
Dialogue Piece
(The alarm goes off at 6:30. I reach over, silence it, and carefully slide out from under the covers.) (The room is still dark—just the faintest hint of dawn creeping through the curtains.) (I move quietly, trying not to disturb her. One foot on the floor. Then the
Dialogue Piece
Her: Get up. Come with me. Me: Why do I feel like I’m being kidnapped. Her: Because you are. Now shut up and follow me. (She takes my hand and pulls me up the stairs.) Me: Why are we climbing? Her: Because the rooftop isn’t walking to us.
Dialogue Piece
(The restaurant is warm and dimly lit—candles flickering on every table, the smell of garlic and fresh bread filling the air.) (We're tucked into a corner booth, menus open in front of us.) Her: (Eyes scanning the pages, lingering on different dishes.) Everything looks so good. Me:
Dialogue Piece
(We're walking through the mall, her hand in mine, when she stops in front of a clothing store.) Her: (Tugging my hand.) Can we go in? Me: Sure. What caught your eye? Her: (Looking up at me with those eyes—wide, soft, devastating.) I think I need a
English
I find our memories sometimes, Pressed into the corners of jeans pockets, Buried like dirt and indifference, Old napkins and notes, With promises long forgotten. Fading ink mixing with worn-out moments, Writhing from the neglect, Aching to come back, To make the false true again. It all blends together sometimes,
English
I stopped writing for years, and when I finally returned, I slipped back into the habit as if no time had passed at all. Filling the page every day feels natural again, almost necessary. Now, skipping even a single day without writing a few lines feels like a small failure,
English
The blue splashes across the canvas Creating cerulean skies The paint streaks past the speed of light Covering up my saddest cries The azure sea ripples with ink And silence washes over sand The lines I carve from purple veins Bleed freely, falling where I stand The waves cross paths
English
Overthinking is when the mind keeps running even when the heart is tired. We replay old moments, imagine future problems, and create fears that do not even exist yet. Slowly, peace slips away not because life is hard, but because our thoughts never rest. The art of not overthinking is
English
Red‑pill content doesn’t just sell advice, it plants fear. It teaches men to see relationships as power games, women as threats, and vulnerability as weakness. It convinces people that love must be earned through dominance, money, or emotional distance, rather than mutual respect and growth. What it’s
English
A quiet clock inhales the night, Twelve breaths held, then set to fly. Old worries loosen their tight grip, Like leaves that finally say goodbye. The year ahead stands, clean and wide, A page still warm from winter’s hand. With hopeful ink and steady heart, We write our dreams
Essay
If it was meant to be, it would have happened—people love to say that, as if fate works alone, as if it doesn’t sometimes wait for hands brave enough to reach for it. I’ve learned that destiny isn’t rigid; it bends. There are endless paths, countless