Poem
Angels have fragile wings — That's why their love feels soft. Demons have cruel hearts — That's why their love feels poisonous. Witches wield black magic — That's why their love feels illusory. Ghosts have summoning power—That's why their love feels tragic. Beasts have
Poem
The year will change its number like a witness changing clothes. Nothing about the crime will be different. The calendar flips, a mere rehearsal of hope before returning to the mundane, just like newly bought planners, just like your promise to never text them back, to never accept an apology
English
Maybe writing is a not an obvious art form. You don't create butterflies out of thin air or spin delicately 7 times in a row. But then again, what is more artistic than to create a fictional place where true love exists, where friends sacrifice themselves for each
Poem
She kept staring at the door, waiting for him— every day, every hour, every minute. When the doorbell rang, her heart would race. With every chime, she hoped that this time, it would be him. And when he returns, after battles fought and miles endured, she will hold him. Her
Poem
प्रकृति में मैं और मैं ही प्रकृति में समाई हूँ। जिस्म से लेकर जान और रूह भी, मारुत में मिलाई हूँ। साँसों संग धड़कनों को भी श्रृंखला सा सजाई हू
Hindi
एक दोस्त है मेरी, थोड़ी खोई-खोई सी रहती है, कम बोलती है, ज़्यादा हँसती है। कभी-कभी चुप-चुप सी रहती है, और कभी-कभी इतना बोलती है कि चुप ही नहीं रहती। न जाने कौ
English
For the world, you are many things. But for me— you are my calm, my comfort, my purple. 💜
English
Some people write to love. Some write to be loved. Some write for love. Some write to move on. But... Some people write to heal, To love themselves even more. Some write for strangers, Telling how pretty they were. Still, they also write because they love. —Shristi
Poem
I dance with my own shadow, 'Cause there's no one to hold my trembling hands, or share soft gaze. I dance with my own shadow, 'Cause there's no one to match my pace, or move in the same sequence. I danced with my own
Hindi
कफ़न ओढ़े हुए हैं दुनिया काफ़ी दिनों से कुछ मासूम बच्चों की खिलखिलाहट-ए-आवाज़ों के साथ। चाँद का भी वो आख़िरी नहाना, मुर्दा सूरज का वो दफ़्नाना, ता
Poem
The lost maiden, Wanders deep within, With thoughts of him, and what had drawn her in, She willed those thoughts to leave, Recalling the torture she reprieved, The sheer panic and congestion, As he stood towering, with bated aggression, Stocky, wide and unattractive, Unloving the maiden with fierce refraction, He
Poem
I have been stripped of my gift, Of flawless words that I could sift, Left with nothing but flesh on bones, And a mind that brims with unwanted ghouls, And whilst parts of me may wish for release, The release from the grip he has on my soul, A grip