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It wasn’t love, not really— just the way you stirred your coffee like the storm outside wasn’t worth worrying about.
By Malik Kashif9 months ago in Poets
Beneath my feet, stones tell stories— not loud, but persistent. A sigh of gravel, the hush of moss. They remember
Darkness was impaired in its transgression as hope seemed to find its way, A startling realisation, a sight to behold, one might deem to say.
By Hridya Sharma9 months ago in Poets
Suddenly, One Afternoon – Samiul Nirjon Suddenly, I saw her on one side of the road— I never thought it would be possible in such troubled times.
By Rejuan Ratul9 months ago in Poets
Early Life and Education Born on November 9, 1877, in Sialkot, Punjab (then part of British India), Allama Iqbal belonged to a devout Muslim family. He showed early signs of intellectual brilliance and poetic talent. He received his initial education in Sialkot and then moved to Lahore, where he attended Government College. Under the mentorship of Sir Thomas Arnold, Iqbal developed a deep interest in Western philosophy.
By Mr Ali9 months ago in Poets
Month, year .. At the transit The season .. The one who came through Night of the day .. At the roundabout. The life of a human .. Carry on.
By Test9 months ago in Poets
It's only real when it happens to THEM. They victim blame, and victim shame, when society's most vulnerable hit bottom. Conversely, they're the first to cry foul, pass the buck, and play the victim each time they're hoisted by their own self-centered, self-serving, and self-destructive, petards.
By Chris Z9 months ago in Poets
It was the beginning of the end In a breath he said Make it so And thus it was The archon looked upon all creation And in the sweep of hand
By Atomic Historian9 months ago in Poets
You don’t like me You only like the fiction in your mind You don’t know me You only show me the likable version of you
It’s an effervescent antidepressant When you can’t pay your rent Money whores stripping us of everything As we cling to our last life line to reality
I’ll be the first to admit I’m a crier. But you've got to get me in the right moment. I get misty-eyed at a nostalgic song and as the credits roll on a beautifully shot movie. I cry when I'm happy as much, or perhaps more, as I do when I'm sad. The sentimental girls get it.
By Top Lover9 months ago in Poets
I love you. There — I said it. Not out loud, not to you, but to the pages that always listen. To the stars that blink above my lonely sky,
By Sabiha Sums9 months ago in Poets
