The Poet's Sanctuary
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✍️ Send us poems through @Poetry_submit_bot, and we'd publish them in the @PoetSanctuary channel. 📢 Chat with the authors, participants and moderators of our channel at https://t.me/+QuKPRvJqOmcbaA8E
نمایش بیشتر📈 تحلیل کانال تلگرام The Poet's Sanctuary
کانال The Poet's Sanctuary (@poetsanctuary) در بخش زبانی انگلیسی بازیگری فعال است. در حال حاضر جامعه شامل 29 731 مشترک است و جایگاه 1 045 را در دسته کتب و رتبه 1 266 را در منطقه الولايات المتحدة الأمريكية دارد.
📊 شاخصهای مخاطب و پویایی
از زمان ایجاد در невідомо، پروژه رشد سریعی داشته و 29 731 مشترک جذب کرده است.
بر اساس آخرین دادهها در تاریخ 04 سپتامبر, 2026، کانال فعالیت پایداری دارد. در ۳۰ روز گذشته تغییر اعضا برابر -234 و در ۲۴ ساعت گذشته برابر -5 بوده و همچنان دسترسی گستردهای حفظ شده است.
- وضعیت تأیید: تأیید نشده
- نرخ تعامل (ER): میانگین تعامل مخاطب 7.63% است و در ۲۴ ساعت نخست پس از انتشار، محتوا معمولاً N/A% واکنش نسبت به کل مشترکان کسب میکند.
- دسترسی پستها: هر پست به طور میانگین 0 بازدید دریافت میکند. در اولین روز معمولاً 0 بازدید جمعآوری میشود.
- واکنشها و تعامل: مخاطبان بهطور فعال حمایت میکنند؛ میانگین واکنش به هر پست 0 است.
- علایق موضوعی: محتوا بر موضوعات کلیدی مانند silence, breath, pain, hope, weight تمرکز دارد.
📝 توضیح و سیاست محتوایی
نویسنده این فضا را محل بیان دیدگاههای شخصی توصیف میکند:
“✍️ Send us poems through @Poetry_submit_bot, and we'd publish them in the @PoetSanctuary channel.
📢 Chat with the authors, participants and moderators of our channel at https://t.me/+QuKPRvJqOmcbaA8E”
به لطف بهروزرسانیهای پرتکرار (آخرین داده در تاریخ 05 سپتامبر, 2026)، کانال همواره بهروز و دارای دسترسی بالاست. تحلیلها نشان میدهد مخاطبان بهطور فعال با محتوا تعامل دارند و آن را به نقطه اثرگذاری مهم در دسته کتب تبدیل کردهاند.
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پستهای کانال
Repost from Iris's Diary
"Arrogant! Arrogant!"
I might be arrogant.
I won't be polite,
or do anything
just because you might.
Rubbish is what
you spit out, not me.
I will speak with all I have.
Try and stop me.
Worth—something
I don't ever seek.
Why would I?
You pretend to care;
I don't even try.
No cage can ever
trap the wrath I bear.
Do not provoke me—
I don't fear.
Arrogant, arrogant—
I'll stay arrogant.
Dust and dirt?
Then let me be.
I'll bloom where
you buried me.
| 2 | Some rules come early. You don’t remember choosing them.
There was a crossing I used to pass by.
A few planks over a break in the ground, edges worn smooth.
Someone had carved a warning into the wood. It had faded, but it stayed.
A bird kept to that spot most days.
If anything came close when the water pushed higher, it would step forward,
just enough to make them stop.
One afternoon, something small came up the path.
Thin, restless, moving like it had somewhere to be.
It stepped onto the plank, slow, testing it.
The bird moved once. That was enough.
The animal turned back, leaving only silence.
It felt settled. Nothing unusual about it.
Later, the water rose a little.
Same place, same marking, same boards underfoot.
The bird crossed first.
No one was there to watch it happen. | 2 035 |
| 3 | typo
it's funny how
the loss of
a forgotten rhyme
pricks me more,
than the loss
of the one
i meant to
write it for. | 2 393 |
| 4 | Dear Competitive Exam,
I know...
This is probably the weirdest love letter you've ever received. People usually write love letters to a person. I chose the question paper. Our relationship has been complicated.
You never text first.
You never call.
You don't even tell me what chapters you'll ask from.
Yet somehow,
you occupy more space in my mind than any crush ever did.
Every morning I promise myself,
"Today I'll study without getting distracted."
Five minutes later,
I'm searching,
"Can someone crack you by studying only two months?"
You must laugh every time.
I've bought highlighters for you,
new notebooks for you,
new timetables for you...
The only thing I haven't bought is consistency.
Forgive me.
I'm working on it.
Some days I stare at your syllabus
the way people stare at mountains.
Beautiful from a distance.
Terrifying up close.
You have introduced me to emotions. I never knew existed.
The confidence of solving one mock test.
The heartbreak of checking the answer key.
The bargaining.
"Please... let the cut-off fall just two marks."
You have taught me that "almost" is the most painful word in the dictionary.
Sometimes I hate you.
Then I remember...
You never asked me to fall in love.
I did that myself.
You don't reject anyone.
You simply ask,
"How badly do you want this?"
And honestly...
Some days my answer is,
"With all my heart."
Other days it's,
"Can we continue tomorrow?"
Still...
I keep returning.
Like a fool.
Like a lover.
Like someone who secretly believes
that one day
you'll finally smile at me
through a result PDF.
I imagine that day often.
No violins.
No slow motion scene.
Just me,
refreshing the website every three seconds,
forgetting how to breathe,
and suddenly seeing my roll number.
That'll probably be the most romantic moment of my life.
So until we officially meet,
Please be a little kind.
I promise to stop saying,
"I'll start from Monday."
You stop hiding easy questions
between impossible ones.
Deal?
Yours faithfully,
emotionally,
mentally exhausted,
and still hopelessly in love,
The Stranger... | 2 348 |
| 5 | There is a wall.
In its corner, a spider’s web,
paint peeling,
a ceiling damp with quiet decay.
There is a wall.
Long cracks running everywhere,
sunlight slipping through them,
trying to look inside.
Still it's standing,
holding the ceiling above its head.
There is a wall.
Between self-respect
and the weight of being looked down on.
Between peace of mind
and the echo of people laughing.
Between a life that could feel enough
and the ones who keep tightening the grip.
There is a wall.
It’s the wall of my house. | 1 822 |
| 6 | The Ugly Girl
They said she was ugly.
Not cruelly, of course.
No one stood in the town square
and announced her defects.
No laws were written against her.
No doors were locked.
There was simply
a little more warmth
for her sister.
A little more patience.
A little more pride.
A little more love.
And what is discrimination,
if not a thousand little mores
given to someone else?
Her sister fit perfectly
inside the frame
the world had prepared.
Skin like milk.
Features soft enough
to make strangers smile.
The kind of face
people call beautiful
before learning a single thing
about the soul behind it.
The ugly girl
learned early
that beauty is the only privilege
people pretend does not exist.
In school,
teachers taught equality.
Then handed the lead role
to the prettier child.
Again.
And again.
And again.
The ugly girl knew every line
of every play.
But she always became
a tree.
A wall.
A nameless villager
standing silently
in the background.
The front row of the prayer chorus
belonged to prettier faces.
The annual photograph
placed her somewhere near the edge,
where memories fade first.
Merit mattered.
Of course it mattered.
It simply mattered less.
Classmates were not cruel either.
Not officially.
They only laughed
when she walked past.
Only compared her
to prettier girls.
Only reminded her,
every now and then,
that love was a prize
she was unlikely to win.
Children can be remarkably honest.
And honesty,
without kindness,
is merely another form of violence.
Years passed.
She learned to laugh
before others could laugh at her.
Learned to insult herself
before others had the chance.
Learned to disappear
while standing in crowded rooms.
The strange thing about loneliness
is that eventually
it begins to feel like personality.
Then came love.
Or what looked like love.
A man noticed her.
Not her face.
Not her mind.
Her availability.
Her willingness
to settle for crumbs.
People who have starved
their entire lives
often mistake scraps
for feasts.
She loved him completely.
He loved her conditionally.
She waited for messages.
He waited for better options.
One day he left.
Not because she was ugly.
That would have been easier.
He left because he could.
Some hearts are abandoned
for reasons.
Others are abandoned
for opportunities.
After that,
she became successful.
This is usually the part
where stories become inspirational.
But life is rarely interested
in neat endings.
The promotions arrived.
The money arrived.
The respect arrived.
Yet every achievement
felt like receiving flowers
at the grave
of a person who needed them years ago.
Because success cannot travel backward.
It cannot sit beside
the little girl in the school auditorium.
It cannot place her
in the front row.
It cannot silence
the laughter.
It cannot teach her
how to see herself
through kinder eyes.
And so she grew older.
The world grew kinder too.
People called her strong.
Resilient.
Independent.
They admired the armor
without noticing
the wounds that required it.
One evening,
standing before a mirror,
she finally understood something.
The tragedy of her life
was never that she was ugly.
The tragedy was that
she spent decades
looking at herself
through borrowed eyes.
Eyes belonging to teachers,
classmates,
strangers,
lovers,
advertisements,
and impossible standards.
Eyes that had never loved her.
Beauty standards change
every century.
Sometimes every decade.
But the damage they leave behind
outlives them all.
The ugly girl was never ugly.
She was merely born
on the wrong side
of a collective hallucination.
And perhaps that is
the most frightening thing
about being human.
A mirror can only reflect a face.
Yet somehow,
we allow it
to determine a soul... | 2 508 |
| 7 | when we die,
i hope we become
a part of the sky.
so every time it rains,
we are everywhere
we couldn't be
while we were alive.
& every time
the sky changes its colors,
it's just us
finding new ways
to stay beautiful. | 2 027 |
| 8 | If I Could Write it Again..
I could begin with
“once, we were infinite,”
but even infinity has an end.
There was a moment
quiet, unremarkable to the world
where your eyes met mine,
and the universe paused
just long enough
for me to believe in forever.
We weren't a fairytale.
Fairytales have spells,
and ours was all silence and slow unraveling.
It felt like poetry
written in a dying language
beautiful,
but no one could translate it right.
You were the ache
beneath every smile.
The echo in every room
I left too quickly.
And if I could write it again,
I'd still let you break my heart.
Because some endings
are worth the story
they come from.
~ xyz
14 December, 2023 | 2 187 |
| 9 | If Love Ever Finds Me
I don't dream of Paris.
Or candles.
Or a sky filled with fireworks.
Give me a rainy evening,
your cold fingers searching for mine inside the pocket of my hoodie.
That is enough to convince me God still writes poetry.
I want to learn the geography of your existence.
The little scar you stopped noticing.
The way your voice becomes softer when sleep begins stealing your words.
The single strand of hair that never stays behind your ear.
The smile you save only for moments you don't realize I'm watching.
Sit beside me.
Close enough that our shoulders forget which one belongs to whom.
Let's waste an entire afternoon
arguing over which movie to watch,
only to spend the whole time
watching each other.
Read your book.
I'll read mine.
Every few pages,
look at me
not because you have something to say,
but because love sometimes looks up just to make sure
its favorite person is still there.
When your head finds my chest,
don't listen to my heartbeat.
It becomes nervous around you.
Listen instead to the silence.
Even it starts smiling.
Come here.
Let me braid your hair as badly as a man possibly can.
Undo it.
Laugh.
Scold me.
Then ask me to do it again.
Some happiness deserves to be repeated.
Let's cook together.
Burn the bread.
Forget the salt.
Dance while the tea boils over.
If home ever learns our names,
I hope it remembers us exactly like this
making a mess and calling it a life.
And when the world becomes too loud,
don't ask me to fix it.
Just place your hand inside mine.
Miracles have happened with less.
One day,
our hair will turn silver.
Our hands will wrinkle.
Our steps will slow.
But I pray
you still reach for my sleeve when crossing a road...
still steal the warmer side of the blanket...
still rest your sleepy face against my shoulder...
as though
after all those years,
the safest place you have ever known
was never a house...
it was
the small distance
between my heartbeat
and yours... | 1 934 |
| 10 | The Weight of Ordinary Things
No one warns you...
that absence first learns the shape of ordinary things.
A chair keeps facing the window
long after the conversations have retired.
A cup remembers the warmth
longer than the hands that borrowed it.
Dust is patient.
It never asks who left.
It simply settles
until every untouched surface
begins to resemble acceptance.
People think forgetting arrives like rain.
It doesn't.
It arrives like sunlight...
so gradual
you cannot point to the hour
the shadows changed places.
One morning,
you reach for a memory
and discover
it no longer bleeds.
It has become
a quiet object
you can hold
without dropping the rest of your life.
Perhaps healing
was never the repair of what broke.
Perhaps it is only this...
learning that even silence
eventually finds
another way
to breathe. | 2 294 |
| 11 | The crows don’t come for the dead.
They come for what’s breathing
without being alive.
For people who smile cleanly
while something inside them
has been gone for years.
The bodies walk.
The rot stays. | 2 364 |
| 12 | Where do you go
When you lose what was never yours?
When you live inside a mirage,
Where everything you reach for
Is always farther than it seems.
You remember the exact moment
You realized what you were holding
Was nothing but thorns.
Still, you smiled.
In that moment,
Pain meant nothing.
Now your hands
Carry the bruises,
Long after you've let go. | 2 630 |
| 13 | PARACETAMOL
A wire wrapped tightly
to my spine,
I lay on the bed,
straight as a line.
Because I couldn't move,
as it gave me pain,
and my mind told me
to stand up, but I knew
it would all be in vain.
The clothes on my flesh
felt heavy as chains,
and to get rid of this pain,
I tried my best to strain.
One, two, three, and four
how many they were,
the crows outside the window,
I knew, were spitting slurs.
I thought it'd all
get out of control,
and then my mother
gave me paracetamol. | 2 877 |
| 14 | When I see this cup,
it does not sit quietly
it calls.
Glazed in colors that linger too long,
light caught in its curves
like something alive,
something waiting.
It leans toward me
without moving.
And I
I feel it
the pull in my throat,
the dryness it creates
just by being seen.
My fingers begin to remember
what it would feel like
to hold,
to lift,
to drink
but I stop them.
I let my eyes wander its edges instead,
trace its shape
without possession.
I close my hand
before it learns to reach.
Because I know
some thirsts
do not end in drinking.
Some only grow louder
the more they are fed.
So I leave it untouched,
not out of fear,
but out of knowing.
I pass it,
again and again,
teaching myself
the quiet strength
of restraint.
It is fragile
not just in form,
but in meaning.
And I will not be the one
to break what I do not yet understand.
When the time comes
when holding is no longer hunger
but readiness
I will lift it gently.
Not to empty it for myself,
but to pour.
To offer.
To share what it holds
without losing myself in it.
So, dear cup
you are not mine to rush.
I want you
yes.
But more than that,
I choose the moment
I become worthy
of holding you. | 2 344 |
| 15 | I begged the night, I begged the sky,
I swore to bleed before goodbye.
With trembling hands, I clutched the flame,
And whispered love, and spoke your name.
The candles wept, their shadows spread,
Like mourners gathered round the dead.
I prayed for mercy, just one chance,
To bind your heart in fate’s last dance.
But all you gave - two words, a knife,
That split the marrow of my life.
Five letters etched, a deathly brand,
Carved deeper than I could withstand.
I can’t - you spoke, the final breath,
And left me courting only death.
Now every night the echoes call,
Through shattered glass and ruined hall.
Your ghost still haunts the crimson room,
Where roses rot and ashes bloom.
I walk in black, with love’s remains,
Forever bound by phantom chains.
- xyz
30 september, 2025 | 2 174 |
| 16 | She was said to be a doll.
A doll with a scar.
Not on her face or body,
but on her tamed soul
and blue heart.
Obeying, bowing, smiling—
her three different crowns.
A brown, princess-like aura,
yet with a betrayed throne.
Her heart of silver stone.
She was said to be a doll, not a toy.
A breathing, lively person—
not some material to use or betray.
Do not try and touch,
she’s no more than a goddess—
you can’t destroy.
– Iris | 2 361 |
| 17 | The thoughts that kill each other every night,
Declare a truce when you're around.
I open the door of my lungs_
Inhale you, exhale doubt.
love doesn't live in the clouds with no parachute,
I found you in the laziest spots,
Between the lights of the cars in the street _
Right there where I put my feet, so effortlessly. | 2 600 |
| 18 | The abandoned car tyre,
with its scars from war,
remembrances of the days when it used to battle roads with so much vigour
that when it crashed on stone
you used to hear bullet sounds,
shots fired at everything that tried to hold us back.
It carried the weight of an entire people,
moving them forward or backwards,
or wherever they desired it.
It was considerate and attentive that way,
the best at turning toward.
You could tell,
because it was the car tyre that always reacted
to the brakes or pumps first.
The car tyre that curved just enough
in the parallel parking section of my license exam.
In that way,
it was always more full of hope than air.
How it lifted itself off the ground
and morphed into a flying machine
to ensure my niece was delivered on time
that one time when labour came too early.
How it sank itself into the ground
like it was grieving with us
as it dragged us to my father’s funeral.
The car tyre that spun over potholes so softly,
so quietly,
we were convinced the road was smooth.
The car tyre that watched the sunset with us
on our first date.
The car tyre that gave so much of its life
to people it did not know
so it could get me to college.
The car tyre that only ever got flat
when I wanted to drive over the bridge.
The car tyre that never tired.
The car tyre that puffed up even more
when its contemporaries succumbed
to the friction of life.
The car tyre that withstood all the pressure
ever thrown onto it
in the name of loving us,
loving me.
The car tyre that’s now abandoned
and sits just outside the shade of the tree.
The car tyre that burns
with the flames of summer
that have slowly torn it apart.
The car tyre that nobody seems to care for anymore
because everyone has moved to different places.
The car tyre that looks like it’s been eaten away at
by loneliness,
the car tyre that’s formed wrinkles on its sides.
The car tyre is past its prime.
But the car tyre needs to be loved.
The car tyre needs to be cherished.
Because there will never be another tyre like it.
I wondered why it seemed so familiar.
My mother is the car tyre. | 2 222 |
| 19 | Longings are always tender,
until they are neglected
to the extent
they turn violent
against their own hopes.
#agony
#poetry | 1 692 |
| 20 | i pull the blanket tight
waiting for sleep to trick me
old thoughts don't go away
they dig in sharp
scratching inside all night
i don't fall apart quick
i stare at the ceiling cracks
making deals with quiet
it's weird
how nothing hurts more
than a cut ever did
then tears come fast
hot like mad words
wetting the pillow with goodbyes i never said
sun sneaks past the curtains
cold and plain
and i get up
putting on a fake smile
like last night's mess
was only a bad dream | 1 708 |
