The volcano spoke only in smoke. People feared it for the fire, for the way the ground around it stayed empty, for the heat that felt almost arrogant. But the mountain did not burn without reason. Deep inside it, pressure had been growing for years. It collected gold from the earth, fed itself on it, trusted it more than rain or sunlight. The volcano loved strange things too, machines, patterns, artificial stars, anything that made more sense than people. Once, a single flowe

i walk into rooms and leave in pieces a laugh here a quiet nod there something of me always stays behind but nowhere feels like mine everyone seems to know what enough looks like i keep reaching for it with empty hands i try harder but it feels rehearsed like i am copying a version of someone who fits there are faces i stay around but not one that sees me whole just fragments reflected back never the full weight of me and still somewhere inside there is th

we grew up quietly no one noticed the exact day when life stopped being simple one day happiness was a chupa chup after school a birthday in class with extra candies running to the door when dad came home helping mom in the kitchen and thinking that cake was the best thing ever made and then somewhere things shifted happiness became marks plans deadlines expectations people started having opinions and somehow they started mattering we began thinking before

the introvert is a hiding cat under the bed watching dust move deciding when the world is worth entering the extrovert is a golden retriever tail already wagging toy in mouth asking the same question again do you want to play do you want to play do you want to play sometimes extroverts are vampires not cruel just hungry feeding on rooms on reactions on borrowed energy leaving more alive while the introvert quietly checks how much is left extroverts are butterflies never still

the car moves without asking anything from me two hours of quiet sitting between where i am and where i am supposed to be i don’t talk the silence feels kind like it knows i need it i keep looking outside the way you do when you want to feel but don’t know what to say the city keeps changing buildings thinning into trees noise loosening its grip and then Cubbon park passes by i have never walked there never stopped only moved through it like a thought you don’t follow but tod

nothing is permanent not passion not love not even the brief architecture of our lives we are all written in pencil smudged by time erased by morning and yet if there is a moment even one where we choose to step fully into the flame to let it warm us or burn us or rename us then we can say we lived truly not carefully not safely but honestly poetry is often taught like a specimen pinned to a board meter measured, metaphors labeled, meaning embalmed but poetry does not want to

Most attraction begins with distance. Not distance of miles, but of attention. The unanswered message, the intentional pause, the quiet withdrawal, these create a vacuum, and the human mind hates empty space. So it fills it with imagination. We start assigning meaning to silence, depth to absence, value to what is slightly out of reach. That’s how the chase is born. In love, we learn early that being less available can make us more desirable. Ignoring becomes a strategy, myst

in the absence of others, the brain reroutes power. external processors shut down. the default mode comes online. memory leaks into imagination, the past and possible exchange signals. synapses fire without urgency, nothing is demanded, nothing is performed. dopamine lowers its voice, reward pauses. attention stretches laterally, scanning instead of chasing. this is where learning settles, where ideas wire themselves together. sleep without sleep, plasticity without pressure.

life has paused not stopped, just a quiet hum between two unfinished songs. the colors dried before I could name them, and now the air holds only what used to be art. I don’t make anymore. I only remember the motion of making. how the world once breathed through my hands. the artist in me is fading without ceremony, like light leaving a room no one walks into anymore. I miss my people. but I stay far, telling myself they’re alright without me. it’s easier that way. the guilt

the world is wide yet somehow too close when the eyes begin to drown salt water learns the shape of your face like it has always belonged there hopelessness is quiet it sits in your bones breathing for you when you are too tired to try inside you a war no one hears steel against glass courage against the mirror the sky leans low as if it knows you cannot hold much more you search the clouds for a shade of pink that once meant tomorrow but now feels like a memory you imagined

there is a room i visit sometimes. not in real life, inside my head. a room with no corners. no edges to hide in. no shadows to disappear into. just space. wide, echoing, uncomfortably honest space. people think clarity is a gift. it isn’t. clarity is a mirror with too much light on it. it shows you everything, the versions of yourself you outgrew, the versions you abandoned, and the ones you’re still pretending to be. in that room, i sit on the floor, and the silence sits ac

there was a visitor once. uninvited. he entered quietly, the way dust enters through a closed window. not enough to notice, until suddenly, you’re choking on it. he didn’t knock. didn’t announce himself. he just slipped into the house and rearranged the air like he owned it, like he owned us. and everything changed. the light. the hours. the sound of footsteps on the stairs. even laughter, when it happened, felt borrowed, something on loan from a world we couldn’t touch anymo

In a world where memories fade like whispers in the wind, there exists a treasure chest that safeguards the essence of time itself—the unassuming yet enchanting picture album, a repository of cherished memories. Flipping through the albums one by one, we get to explore so much from the past, whether it's yesterday, the day before, or even years or months ago. It's fascinating how the memories stored in our long-term storage come to life when we view the pictures, reminding us

The day you left, nobody knew, how huge your loss would be. The color of the sky is made up of hues. Every day on the edge of the city, we drank the brew. even on the worst summer loo, It's been a while since I've done anything new. But life seems incomplete without you, and the bond I felt for you never flew. You were always there for me, no matter what I was going through, nobody but you has been so perfect in my view. I'm still waiting on the outskirts for you. and I'll al

Come out, they say, from the cave's embrace, I shake my head, in that hidden space. Denial's nod, they won't understand, assumptions made by them, don’t know what's planned. Only I know the comfort’s grace, within my cave, my secret place. Imaginations, my innate design, a heaven built, wholly mine. Though shadows loom, it's a place so true, gloomy at times, yet familiar through. Standing tall, leaving everyone behind, in my cave's embrace, solace I find. Owned and crafted b

Every night, I toss and turn. Looking at the ceiling, my thoughts do churn. from one side to another, the head-to-heart duel, Feelings get tugged, with no clear fuel. Frozen in those awful thoughts, eyes filled with droplets, bloodshot, and distraught. The anxiety filled with tension starts to seep, Filling my soul with thoughts so deep. By the end, my whole energy is drained. I shake my head. imitating and faking the strength, affirmations spread. Yet inside, a self pretends

This strange emotion, despite its enthralling shrouds me, making duties enormous, I recollect my darkest days. I did, however, make it past the difficult days. This day, too, will come to an end. because someone out there is a friend, who recognises the worth within my soul, who serves as an anchor when I feel less full. It's okay not to have a continual heart of joy. It's okay to be a little off-kilter. not at everyone's beck and call. Within you, you have enough strength an

The process to success is not quite an easy one. I will have to do everything to put my conscious self on the lawn. It's that time when I make people act stunned. Of my actions when they are successfully done. I have to tell myself each day, "You can do it, cmon." It's the confidence and strength that have to be drawn. Like the butterfly’s four stages, spawn Have to prove everyone wrong, especially the men, That a girl like me can have all the fun, And the following day be to

You advised me to toil, let my mind whirl, and consume knowledge like daily bread. And, as you say, your command is what I always followed. You would tell me to go to dance classes, learn instruments, and play sports. I would try and leave in every second moment. Thinking all this is useless and feeling that I should enjoy myself and be myself. But little me never knew, How in the future will the things I denied for are the only things I need for my university application. I