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频道帖子
| 2 | Hey it's my poem - They say it's not love—it's merely an attraction I have towards you.
But what they don't know is...
The way my smile lights up every time I catch a glimpse of you.
The way I get goosebumps whenever you sit beside me.
The way I want to hold your hand and walk into eternity with you.
The way I blush when you simply say, "Hello."
The way I imagine you wearing every outfit I see in the malls.
They don't understand how deeply I adore you,
Or how much I miss the sight of you when you're not around.
How I dream of you every single day,
And how you're the very first and the very last thought on my mind.
You make me wonder how peaceful my life would be with you,
And how lonely it would have been had you never existed in it.
They call me a fool,
In love with someone
Who doesn't love her back,
Who doesn't even look at her.
But my eyes often catch you staring when you think I'm not looking.
And in those silent moments,
I feel our souls together,
Wandering through the world,
As though they had always belonged to one another.
~ Kirat🌙💗 | 285 |
| 3 |  没有文字... | 1 |
| 4 | Oh_My_Art.pdf | 1 |
| 5 | When autumn scatters its tired leaves,
I’ll walk with you beneath the quiet trees,
kicking through colours
that are dying so beautifully
it hurts to watch.
I’ll keep the prettiest leaf I find
and slip it between your books,
because some things
shouldn’t be forgotten.
And when the world feels colder,
emptier,
I’ll wrap my jacket around you
even if I’m the one
left shivering in the wind. | 5 |
| 6 | If it’s from you,
I wouldn’t care about genre —
call it tragedy, romance,
or the kind of story
that ends mid-sentence.
I’d still read it,
bleed with it,
believe in it.
- PTuT | 715 |
| 7 |  没有文字... | 762 |
| 8 | Can I be the one who noticed you first,
in a garden loud with colour and noise,
I saw only you,
a little wilting, a little quiet,
the way certain things are beautiful
precisely because they are almost gone.
I told myself it was love.
Maybe it was.
Maybe love and fear wear the same face
when you are desperate enough to believe
you are the reason something stays alive.
So I watered you.
I watered you the way guilt waters things, daily, relentless, without listening.
The rain was already coming.
The season was already turning toward you,
slow and generous,
the way nature keeps its oldest promises.
But I could not wait for what I could not control.
I needed to be the reason.
And you, soft and rooted and trying,
you felt the attention like a debt,
something warm pressed into your petals
that you did not know how to return,
because how does a flower repay a hand
that will not stop giving
what it was never asked to give?
You tried.
You opened a little more than was wise.
You bent toward me the way tired things bend
toward whatever leans closest,
not from love, but from the gravity of being cared for
too much, too loudly, too often.
I called it blooming.
It was withering.
And when I saw the edges of you darkening,
when the stem began to bow
under the weight of all my devotion,
I did what frightened people do,
I plucked you.
I thought, if I hold it, it cannot leave.
I thought, this is mine now, finally, fully mine.
I carried you home like a victory.
I did not notice
that a flower, once taken from the earth,
has already begun its ending.
The happiness was brief the way stolen things are brief,
bright, then guilty, then gone.
And you, who might have lived through the rain,
who might have straightened your own spine
by summer's end,
who never asked for a gardener at all,
you went quietly,
petal by petal,
the way things leave
when they were never really yours.
I withered too.
That part surprised me most.
I had thought grief was the price others paid.
I had thought love, my love, was exempt
from the consequences of its own excess.
But what I called devotion
had no room in it for you,
only for the version of you
that needed me to survive.
Somewhere in that garden,
the rain came as it always meant to.
The other flowers lifted their heads,
opened without being asked,
grew without being watched.
Nobody noticed the boy
or the small, dry thing in his hand the thing he had held so tightly
it had forgotten how to be alive.
He had called it love.
But love does not pluck.
Love does not drown a thing in devotion
and call the drowning care.
What he had loved was the holding.
What he had lost was never his.
For Reader's: I don't know what to name this piece of prose poetry I wrote. Help me name it, and I hope it reaches your heart. It couldn't have been better, so please suggest where I can improve. | 755 |
| 9 | When spring breathes its first bloom,
I’ll collect the tiniest fallen petals
because they remind me of the softness
you hide beneath your stubbornness.
I’ll name wildflowers after you
and pretend the earth learned its colours
from the blush on your cheeks.
I’ll spend mornings tracing the air
just to find your perfume
in the whisper of a passing breeze. | 1 |
| 10 | Tu noor-e-jahan hai.....🌸✨
Tu noor-e-jahan hai.....
Chaand bhi tera noor...ke...
Bas ek numaaish sa hai....
Teri aankhen neer vargi....
Kho na mae chahoo...in mae....
Bas kho ke yahe...pas tera rehna...chahoo mae....tera aakheo....me....
Khud ko kho kar bhi
Khud ko paane ka ehsaas hai… 🌊🤍
Tu noor-e-jahan hai.....
Tu noor-e-jahan hai.....
By ~Yash 💗✨
@inkforce_07 | 29 |
| 11 | Tu noor-e-jahan hai.....🌸✨
Tu noor-e-jahan hai.....
Chaand bhi tera noor...ke...
Bas ek numaaish sa hai....
Teri aankhen neer vargi....
Kho na mae chahoo...in mae....
Bas kho ke yahe...pas tera rehna...chahoo mae....tera aakheo....me....
Khud ko kho kar bhi
Khud ko paane ka ehsaas hai… 🌊🤍
Tu noor-e-jahan hai.....
Tu noor-e-jahan hai.....
By ~Yash 💗✨
@inkforce_07 | 1 |
| 12 | for another time
you split me into fragments
for another time
you crowned yourself the argument
for another time
our shadows stayed apart
for another time
you numbed my bleeding heart
for another time
we didn't come close
for another time
you made me overdose
lessons dressed as fate
walked in through the heartbreak
teaching me not to fall again
not to make the same mistakes
and for another time
this stupid heart
will find its way back
to you.
~ Girza Mhalib (rare edition) | 643 |
| 13 | It all starts when a boy is born,
He shrieks, he strives, he shouts, he's grown.
But with the boy the man grows father,
He softens and calms as per the order.
He starts feeling lonely and sad, [The kid]
Thank you society !! His emotions are dead.
Becomes a rebel in order to escape,
Can't find a way in this viscious lake.
The kid starts growing, he is mature,
Now he understands his father's nature.
To be a man, you must muster courage,
Enough to be calm and to channel rage.
A man's nature is like quiet junction,
But sometimes, he needs eruption.
Resilient, Serene, Forgiving is a man,
Holds his breath as soon as he can.
Pen name - A.Riley | 615 |
| 14 | cab arrived, pack your bags,
three, two, one—
come down to the earth.
come alive,
paint the sketch you made,
the one i’ll never let fade dead.
three, four, five,
i see you in the stars,
but you will only come that far.
cab arrived, pack your bags,
three, two, one—
come down to the earth.
~ Girza Mhalib | 553 |
| 15 |  which is pretty saddddd? | 486 |
| 16 | hot summer day
outsideeeeee....we ran to play
with an ice tray
cuz it's a holiday
ice melted fast
before it touched our drink
sun zapped it so quick
it vanished in a blink
hot summer day
insideeeeee....we marched back home
jumped in the pool
and now we're cool!!!
~ Girza Mhalib | 610 |
| 17 |  没有文字... | 652 |
| 18 | I call myself unfit for human relations,
for I haven’t saved a single one
from breaking apart.
Their actions felt like daggers
in my chest.
And those words—
they were the knife,
twisting deeper and deeper,
leaving a harrowing wound.
And now I sit, writing poems
under the weight of it all,
trying to silence
the endless echoes
of what ifs and whys,
striving hard to survive
the rejections,
the regrets,
the resentments—
as if I am made of them.
I try to escape,
but I am trapped
in my own woven web
of doubt,
dread,
and despair.
And the more I struggle,
the tighter it pulls—
every thought a thread,
every memory a knot
I cannot undo.
The silence is never silent,
it hums with everything
I wish I could forget.
Even my breaths feel borrowed,
heavy with the weight
of things I never said
and things I should have never felt.
I am both
the prison
and the prisoner—
building walls
I do not know how to break,
watching every connection
slip through my hands
like something
I was never meant to hold. | 622 |
| 19 | The crack in the mirror
Thats what ive been my entire life, never wanted, never looked for. The destruction of beauty.
Ive always tried to look at the bright side, but no one wants a crack in the mirror. No one ever wants to be beside the hole, the ugly shatter, the glass of wine spilled on the carpet while the glass lays there shattered, the carpet from its beautiful off white to a blood stained mess, while I lay there, no emotions, staribg at the ceiling while everything turns dark, no 7 minutes of good memories. Just asking God why me, why did it always have to be me. The crack in the mirror. Tossed out. Nice to take moody shots once in a while but tossed out afterwards never to be seen again. Just to be burnt down and kill the world slowly, causing the sky's to turn into an ash gray. Where the sunshine doesn't pass through. Where the is no light anymore, a burning torch would be extinguished immediately through this storm. I hate this, I never asked to be this ugly and shattered and hurting to everyone and anyone. All I wanted was to be loved and cared for. Im sorry. Im sorry that I am, the crack in the mirror.
- By @Hokkaidoice | 612 |
| 20 | We are pleased to inform you that we are resuming submissions of your writings to @JoruKiMalkin. | 556 |
