We keep regretting the times when our inner discomfort discourages our expressive selves from speaking....
Poems forever
By Emily Brontë
Fall, leaves, fall; die,
flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose
should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
By Amna Ameer
For me, rock bottom was not when
I disappointed others.
When I forgot to hold the door open for the person behind me.
When I couldn't open up about what kept me awake at night.
When the emotional quotient was too unachievable for my intelligence
When I lost friends like seasons
And couldn't hold on to my seniors.
When I was always the first to
make contact,
But I myself disappeared for days.
Rock bottom was seldom loneliness,
Or despair, or failing health.
It was not even recognising death
in the living,
Or making way for funerals or graves.
It was not even a point in time,
Or an exact date,
"Time of death," as they say.
Rock bottom
Was that sombre evening,
When summer lingered longer
than nostalgia,
And the smell of rain in the air
settled over my temples
Like a dull headache.
Rock bottom
Was telling myself
I deserved abandonment and pain,
That I had earned the right to be
forsaken and taken for granted.
It was when I left myself behind to wander
In strange lands where only savages tread.
It was when I had already made peace with my demise.
Rock bottom was thinking joy
was something I could not hold,
That my fingers would make it impure,
That I would place it in a cabinet
and forget it.
Rock bottom was thinking I was incapable of keeping lists, chasing errands
And choosing myself once again.
By Raira
Et tu, Brute,
Thus whispered my soul
On the cold night of December 26,
A lament that never ends,
Only echoes,
Again and again.
All along,
I was holding flowers,
Waiting for a blossom.
But you held a shovel,
Quietly digging my grave.
I overlooked the obvious
And called it trust.
Now I know
What killed Caesar
Wasn't the dagger,
But the fact
That Brutus held it.
In the scorching sun,
Awaiting refuge,
I mistook your shadow
for shelter.
I looked only at you
And never looked ahead.
Everyone asks
Why I am still mourning,
If you were truly
That precious.
Little do they know,
It is not you I mourn.
I mourn the version of myself
That loved without fear.
You left.
And I never returned.
By Tooba Samad
Sometimes, knowingly or unknowingly,
We feel a sudden heaviness inside our hearts,
gradually growing,
The kind of weight many of us carry for years,
The heaviness that compels us to hold onto
unexpressed feelings, pain and never-ending thoughts.
The strange part is that
We replay those moments,
We imagine flashbacks,
After we lose our inner voice.
To be frank, we all have a soft, childlike side within us,
Someone who is fearless, talkative and never stops talking,
Someone who doesn't worry about how others judge.
Yet somehow, we silence ourselves.
We keep regretting the times when our inner discomfort discourages our expressive selves from speaking.
Undoubtedly, it takes time to open up,
To let go of your insecurities.
However, one day, one moment, you have to overcome this long-lasting heaviness.
Because the words you bury don't disappear;
they simply become the weight you carry.
And maybe healing doesn't begin when someone understands you.
Maybe it begins the moment you finally allow
yourself to be heard.
So don't let your silence become your forever.
Your voice deserves the same kindness
you've been giving to everyone else.
