So forgive me for treating you as a stranger, because that is the most I can do for you....
Poems forever
By Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
By Zahra Zafar
We are not friends anymore,
but we are not enemies either.
I do not hate you
to the point of your existence.
You can still eat, but not at my table.
You can still laugh,
but not at my expense.
You did not leave a void
when you went away.
That space is already filled with
everything you have said and done.
Looking at you now is like looking at
some old, worn-out book of the past
that I once liked but do not relate to anymore.
Now you call me again, reminiscing
about what we had,
friendship, loyalty and sisterhood,
but I am not where you left me.
Your presence does not excite me,
your absence does not bring sorrow.
I simply do not feel the loss of your being.
So forgive me for treating you as a stranger,
because that is the most I can do for you.
By Esha Bakht
Opened my diary I wrote long ago,
past memories revived, long foregone.
I unravelled the words that were written by me,
the intrusive thoughts that were the key
to the secrets that I never spoke,
to assemble dreams that were once broken.
The whispers that were lost, provoked,
timeworn thoughts softly evoked.
The faded words inked on the pages,
I finally found my old self after ages.
By Humera Mehboob
Let the authors be dead, oh please, strike them twice,
For daring to write something you read… not nice.
Hang them with metaphors! (Too vague, too thin!)
They should’ve footnoted every feeling within.
A storm in a sentence? How terribly unclear,
Was it rain or depression, or taxes, my dear?
You wanted a map, a moral, a guide,
Instead they gave oceans with nowhere to hide.
So bury the writers beneath their own prose,
How rude, not explaining what everyone knows.
Yes, let them be dead if they ever mislead,
For readers, of course, never misread.
By Abid Agha
I walk beside the shadows of your laughter,
silent, unseen.
Every smile you cast
drifts past me like a passing tide.
I memorise your pauses,
the way your bright eyes flicker,
the smile you pass to me,
hoping one day I’ll matter enough to stay.
From afar,
I love you in whispers no one hears.
I watch you in the quiet corners of the day,
your laughter spilling like sunlight
I cannot reach.
I memorise the curve of your smile
as if it were a secret map
leading nowhere I can go.
I speak in glances no one notices,
write letters with words that vanish,
craft images never shared with you
before they touch your hands.
And still, I linger-
a shadow near your light,
content in the ache of simply
knowing you exist.
By Aman Sadiq
Know thyself,
no matter if the reed in the barn is shaky and dry,
and if wrinkled and dying is the hay,
listen to the poet of utmost barrenness,
who sings thy songs while passing by;
Know thyself,
before the blasts of cruel winter appear
to freeze thy dreams in a murky bowl,
so envious of thy cheeks and beauty,
and to make thy darkest eyes unclear;
Know thyself,
the world is still a beautiful place to play,
what you call an autumn of utmost pain,
and call a season of abject detachment,
is but a fine and glowing sunny day.
