Gira's lost box
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“So many ways to tell a story, but thats what makes them so interesting! You can never predict how they're going to turn out”
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Немає даних24 години
Немає даних7 днів
+630 днів
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how beautiful is it to dream to think to love? even to the things which are not alive for those who dont put an effort to see it?
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it stored all those screams wrapped it inside of it and turned it into rhymes i could neer think of they say mind is a terrible place? not really this place wanst
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Hello are you there? oh well i am talking to you it's me shrijeet no charles no anyone just me i want to tell you that i made a decision a stupid but a decision okay and i want you to hear me out i want to tell you that i am closing this place all for once i would surely miss it it has been quite a long time i have been writing but idk what happened my viewership got fucked no ones reads this place and i feel like most of my work i spent hours on just gets overshadowed i cant compete with others now you may argue that shrijeet why you care about others or stuff like viewership well it is not just that anyone who works hard deserved to be appreciated or criticized i wanna start fresh i wanna grow i want to improve and i cant do that with this one so i am taking this decision dont worry my life work wont be gone i would shift it somewhere else a new place where i will just love the literature i always did my first love who saved me from myself i am not doing this just for views am doing this because i wanna meet people like me who could read me and share their work with me and we could relate with each other so that is why am doing this i wanna make friends a community full of poets where we could show love the way we want to i thank you all for every support i couldnt been done this without you but in order to do something greater in order to create something bigger i need to set up oiut of my comfort zone so am doing this i didnt want to leave my diary
but my diary isnt going anywhere it's just chintu's new home he always wanted to give to his stories so am chintu and ik we all have chintu somewhere
so this channel would be going into my archaive and i will chose one of my old poems to post every day and from now that would be organized and mannered thanks
i hope you understand
it was about the time for giratina to rest
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Chintu’s Home
What was his mistake?
That he wanted to be a poet,
That he wished to give his stories a home on paper.
Every day, carrying his restlessness within,
Every day, setting out to find a new home for his stories,
He would leave, return by evening,
And rush to his room.
*"Hey, Chintu’s father, tell me something,*
*Where does your son go every evening?*
*Even in school, he seems lost in another world!"*
*"Oh dear, what can I say? Our son is crazy,*
*I don’t know what love he has for paper!*
*He keeps writing day and night,*
*And this goes on… but what will society say?"*
But who will tell these poor people
That in that dark, locked room exists a world
Far more colorful than this one?
And no, Chintu isn’t alone there.
There’s his pen, the one his mother gave him on his last birthday,
And his notebook, the one he stubbornly convinced his father to buy.
That old pen, that worn-out notebook, and those cracked walls—
These were Chintu’s closest friends.
That old pen was essential,
For before new dreams and stories
Could fade away in his mind,
It carried them to their new home.
And their home?
Do you know who that is?
No idea? Oh, that old notebook,
Which, though half-filled,
Still gave those stories a place,
A place where they could be remembered.
But what was Chintu’s mistake?
That he dared to dream,
That he wanted to turn dreams into words,
That he wished not just to see dreams but to live them?
*"You want to be a poet?"*
His father called out in anger.
Poor Chintu ran downstairs.
His father said, *"What is this?*
*Do you think writing poetry will feed you?*
*What name will you make in society with this?*
*Forget all this, it's useless.*
*Those who don’t study properly belong nowhere."*
Slowly, those evenings—
Where Chintu would step into his world,
Where he would sit at his desk and show the walls a new universe,
Where his pen would teach new dreams to fly,
And his notebook would give them a sky—
Began to fade away.
And so I ask again,
What was Chintu’s mistake?
He only wanted to be a poet.
With his unspoken dreams,
He wished to soar in the sky he built for himself.
He wanted to give his unsaid words,
His forgotten memories,
A place on paper.
All he ever asked for
Was a home for his dreams
And a sky to fly with them.
He only wished
For his stories to have a home—
If not in someone’s heart,
Then at least in his pages.
But where are those pages now?
Go and ask those broken walls,
The ones that shattered so much
That even their plaster couldn’t hold,
As they watched Chintu’s hands
Set them ablaze.
Even today, I ask those walls,
What was our Chintu’s mistake?
That he only wanted to live.
— Shrijeet_Rachit
1 018
Chintu’s Home
What was his mistake?
That he wanted to be a poet,
That he wished to give his stories a home on paper.
Every day, carrying his restlessness within,
Every day, setting out to find a new home for his stories,
He would leave, return by evening,
And rush to his room.
*"Hey, Chintu’s father, tell me something,*
*Where does your son go every evening?*
*Even in school, he seems lost in another world!"*
*"Oh dear, what can I say? Our son is crazy,*
*I don’t know what love he has for paper!*
*He keeps writing day and night,*
*And this goes on… but what will society say?"*
But who will tell these poor people
That in that dark, locked room exists a world
Far more colorful than this one?
And no, Chintu isn’t alone there.
There’s his pen, the one his mother gave him on his last birthday,
And his notebook, the one he stubbornly convinced his father to buy.
That old pen, that worn-out notebook, and those cracked walls—
These were Chintu’s closest friends.
That old pen was essential,
For before new dreams and stories
Could fade away in his mind,
It carried them to their new home.
And their home?
Do you know who that is?
No idea? Oh, that old notebook,
Which, though half-filled,
Still gave those stories a place,
A place where they could be remembered.
But what was Chintu’s mistake?
That he dared to dream,
That he wanted to turn dreams into words,
That he wished not just to see dreams but to live them?
*"You want to be a poet?"*
His father called out in anger.
Poor Chintu ran downstairs.
His father said, *"What is this?*
*Do you think writing poetry will feed you?*
*What name will you make in society with this?*
*Forget all this, it's useless.*
*Those who don’t study properly belong nowhere."*
Slowly, those evenings—
Where Chintu would step into his world,
Where he would sit at his desk and show the walls a new universe,
Where his pen would teach new dreams to fly,
And his notebook would give them a sky—
Began to fade away.
And so I ask again,
What was Chintu’s mistake?
He only wanted to be a poet.
With his unspoken dreams,
He wished to soar in the sky he built for himself.
He wanted to give his unsaid words,
His forgotten memories,
A place on paper.
All he ever asked for
Was a home for his dreams
And a sky to fly with them.
He only wished
For his stories to have a home—
If not in someone’s heart,
Then at least in his pages.
But where are those pages now?
Go and ask those broken walls,
The ones that shattered so much
That even their plaster couldn’t hold,
As they watched Chintu’s hands
Set them ablaze.
Even today, I ask those walls,
What was our Chintu’s mistake?
That he only wanted to live.
— Shrijeet_Rachit
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it felt comforting when kanha said-
"कैसी हो सखि? सुख में तो हो?"
Ts- How are you, dear friend? I hope your heart is at ease.
1 018
“So many ways to tell a story, but thats what makes them so interesting! You can never predict how they're going to turn out”
-prof paradox
