Backyard

Let’s end — then restart, wake, and tilt apart. If everything must fall to heal, then let it fall from the heart.

Sometimes I hesitate Before writing a line— Not because I lack feelings But from suspicion Surely someone wiser has already said better Surely every thought, every wonder, has already been archived Love was written In ghazals In poems Loss in epics Hope in scriptures dispair in margins What's left for me? Is there anything? A footnote? An echo? A delayed repetition? Delayed recognition? Yet— And yet The heart doesn't check libraries before it breaks Pain does not verify citations before it speaks Meaning might be old, But the experience is always current, fresh, New and adventurous No sunset repeats itself Is it? To the one seeing it first No grief is second-hand to the one carrying it Maybe, So maybe originality Was never invention Maybe it was Arrival— of your voice reaching the truth At the same moment, You became capable of saying it Might be not new to the world But new to you And that perhaps Enough reason to write anyways already said (—master...)

Society moving fast but unclear where.

Not so good, not so bad. There was nothing that I had. I felt vacuous, yet not sad. An empty calm, I never fought or clad. I tried hard to make myself useful, but failed— yet my failures never made me mad. It was like a space vessel, A ride in quite vastness; that silence was soothing And for that, I'm quite glad. — master...

The same thought, the same idea, can occur in millions of minds at the same time. One person speaks first. The rest are told they copied. But timing is not theft. Silence is not absence. Just because someone found the courage to say it out loud doesn’t mean others borrowed it. Most ideas are not born— they arrive. Floating through culture, waiting for a voice brave enough to claim them. Originality, more often than not, is coincidence wearing confidence like a crown. And history rarely remembers who thought first— only who spoke without apology.

Different viewpoints don’t fight; insecurities do.

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Then then then, someone just reminded that it's been 3 days since a new year, perhaps nothing specially changed instead of calendar yet I don't be a very pessimistic — have a nice new year y'all..... And and one thing that reminder guy said was that my post looks like very AI, It made me curious about it so I checked myself and lol it said it's AI generated...... I wonder what's going on yet it feels like I write so bad that it looks like a AI, it made me questions myself soo I'd stay on moon for some time, convincing aliens that I'm normal.....

The Luxury of Asking “Why” Some people ask what is the meaning of life? Others ask how much for the rice? The difference is not intelligence. It is distance— from hunger, from panic, from tomorrow. Philosophy requires time. Time requires safety. Safety is the first privilege no one calls by its name. I learned doubt from books. They learned endurance from mornings that arrive without mercy. While I untangle existence, someone else untangles debt, counts breaths in queues, measures hope in wages. The question why needs silence around it. It needs a room where hunger is not knocking. So when I ask about purpose, I hear another question beneath it— who gave you the time to wonder? I am not wiser. I am buffered. And every time I speak of meaning, the world replies softly: First, survive.

@verse by MR

I am happy* Happy because the ceiling above me does not leak when it rains, because hunger visits me as a thought, not a schedule. Happy because my pain arrives with vocabulary, because I have the time to name it, sit with it, romanticize it. But every smile carries a citation. This joy was made possible by— someone else working longer, someone else sleeping lighter, someone else learning early how to survive without hope. My comfort is not innocent. It just wears clean clothes. I laugh, but the laughter checks its surroundings first. I rest, but rest feels borrowed. Even peace asks quietly, “Are you sure you deserve me?” Some nights, happiness feels less like a feeling and more like an agreement I didn’t read carefully. I want to celebrate, but the world keeps interrupting with footnotes. Millions excluded. Access varies by birth. Conditions subject to cruelty. So I hold my joy gently, like contraband. Grateful— but never proud. Because happiness, in a broken world, is never a standalone sentence. It always ends with an asterisk.

Rain touches everything yet belongs to nothing.

Back in the day there was show called The Marvelous Mrs Maisel And there was a cool line said by a character declan howell (if I'm not wrong) he says,‘‘no one knows anything about art’’ And ...... Yeah my mind says it's a cool one..... Umm because — ahh nevermind

Ladies and gentlemen, or whoever survived the ticket queue — welcome to the theatre of civilized disasters. Today’s performance is sponsored by collective denial and government-approved optimism. Please silence your morality; it tends to interrupt the script. The spotlight begins where hope usually ends— center stage, under a flickering bulb that smells like someone else’s burnout. I stand here, not as a hero, nor as a victim — but as the confused narrator who was hired last minute because the protagonist caught existential depression backstage. You ask: “What’s the message?” I reply: “Even the writer doesn’t know.” He only scribbled truth until it was edited into a marketable lie. Observe the props: a chair that was once ambition, a clock that mocks the concept of timing, and a curtain that falls more gracefully than most humans do. Tonight’s tragedy is subtle: no blood, no sword, no thunder. Just ordinary people breaking beautifully in socially acceptable silence. And if you find poetry in it — congratulations. You’ve learned to romanticize what should have been repaired. Thank you for watching, thank you for pretending, and remember — the exit door is behind you, but the story leaves with you.

🎭 “The Audience May Remain Seated” — Dramatic Monologue

🎭 “The Audience May Remain Seated” — Dramatic Monologue

I have a bad habit of biting my tongue... I wonder who will accept it

The Art of Dying Beautifully We never die once, do we? We die in moments — quiet, exquisite — like ink bleeding from a forgotten letter. A dream goes first, then a belief, then the courage to ask why. And yet we smile, adjust our collars, and call it “growth.” The world claps for the one who burns with elegance — who makes ruin look rehearsed, who turns grief into an exhibit. We paint our heartbreaks gold, write obituaries in metaphors, and call it poetry — as if death, when phrased well, hurts less. Maybe that’s what beauty is — not in living, but in the practiced grace of falling apart quietly, without spilling the wine.

If I asked you to write a poem, would you? If I gave you a title — “Ink Made of Ashes” — would anyone dare to craft an ode, or a sonnet