Reception Into Madness

Hey reader! Welcome back to Versebound. I am back with a new poem for you. Read on..

She walks like thunder, dressed to kill,

A striking goddess with iron will.

But beneath the glam, her world’s askew—

She’s breaking apart, and no one has a clue.

They call her spoiled, a luxury brat,

“She’s got it all, why’s she acting like that?”

Her screams are labeled as drama, excess,

While her soul’s unraveling, thread by thread.

The truth? She’s drowning behind the gloss,

Her nights are medicated, her mornings lost.

The scars they don’t see, she covers with care,

Concealer, perfume—her desperate flair.

Her teeth untouched, her hair undone,

Her body’s a battlefield, every war unsung.

Her glasses? “A fashion stunt,” they say—

Not the lens to a life fading away.

Her blogs, her cries, her desperate yells,

All bounce off the walls of judgmental hells.

Because pain, in their eyes, must be grotesque—

If you don’t look broken, you’re just a pest.

But here she stands, her silence loud,

A ticking bomb in the midst of a crowd.

Her madness is subtle, a stylish decay,

A queen on the edge, wasting away.

You see perfection? She feels despair.

Her beauty’s a mask, her heart laid bare.

And while the world adores her grace,

Her soul’s slipping to a darker place.

Reception into madness, bold and cruel,

Where screams go unheard in a world of fools.

10 Things I Want to Say to the People I Have Lost in My Life

Losing someone—whether through time, circumstances, or destiny—is a feeling that reshapes the heart. Yet, even in their absence, there are words left unspoken, moments unexpressed, and emotions bottled up. This post is my attempt to give voice to those feelings, a message to those I’ve lost but still carry within me.

1. I never wanted to lose you.

The thought of losing you was never a part of the plan. If life had given us more control, I would have held on tighter, longer.

2. My relationship with you was never fake.

Every word, every gesture, every shared laugh—it was all real. There was nothing superficial about the bond we shared.

3. I miss the golden moments together.

Memories of the laughter, the adventures, and the quiet moments of understanding stay with me. They remain golden, untouched by time.

4. It was important for our well-being to let you go.

Sometimes, love means making difficult decisions. Letting go of you wasn’t easy, but it was necessary—for you, for me, and for the paths we needed to walk separately.

5. Just because I let you go doesn’t mean I hate you.

There’s no bitterness, no resentment. Letting go was an act of acceptance, not anger.

6. There are certain situations beyond our control; certain situations are inevitable.

Life often places us in storms we cannot avoid. Some losses were simply out of our hands, no matter how much we wished to hold on.

7. I regret causing any harm.

If I ever hurt you, intentionally or not, I carry that regret deeply. I hope you know it was never my intention to cause you pain.

8. I wish I had appreciated you more.

Only in your absence have I realized the depth of your impact on my life. I wish I had shown you more gratitude when I had the chance.

9. It was an honor having you as a part of my life.

Whether our time together was brief or long, it was meaningful. You’ve left a mark on my soul that I will always cherish.

10. I pray that all the kindness you have given me, you find it multiplied in both the worlds.

Your kindness, your love—it echoes in my life even now. I hope wherever you are, you receive all the goodness you gave, tenfold.

Sometimes, writing to the people we’ve lost helps us heal. To those who read this and resonate, I hope it inspires you to reflect, write, or share your own words for the people you’ve lost. Healing begins when we embrace the memories and the lessons they leave behind.

The Symphony of Chaos

Hey reader! I am back with another work for your catharsis. Read on.

I called it noise, back then—

a cacophony of complaints,

shards of words tossed like glass,

crashing over kitchen counters.

Their voices tangled,

looping like broken records,

shouting, screaming,

fighting over things

I thought didn’t matter.

I locked my door,

sealed my ears,

escaped into the hum

of my own ambition—

learning, creating,

anything to drown

their endless storm.

But storms, I’ve learned,

are more than destruction.

They clear, they cleanse.

Their words weren’t

just wasted air;

they were fragments of pain

released

over and over,

until the sharp edges dulled.

And then life showed me—

harsh group dynamics,

friendships frayed like loose threads,

my own voice rising

to match the chaos

I once despised.

I spoke in circles.

I screamed.

I repeated myself

until the ache

lessened.

Now I see them differently:

their voices weren’t noise;

they were music—

raw, jagged symphonies

of survival.

Who am I to judge

the rhythm of release?

We all vent in our ways,

reduce our traumas

to bearable whispers.

Their chaos was never waste.

It was their way.

And now, it’s mine.

Let me know your views in the comments section. Don't forget to share!

A Bleak Poem

In this blog post, I’m taking a slightly different approach. Unlike my previous entries, I’ve decided not to provide an explanation or analysis of the poem you’re about to read. I thought it might be more engaging for you, my thoughtful readers, to delve into it and interpret its meaning in your own unique way. After all, poetry is a personal journey, and every reader brings their own perspective to the words. So, here’s my latest poem—straight from my heart to yours. Let your imagination roam, and may these verses find a home in your thoughts. Happy reading!

Screaming for Patience

When I was young—

younger than this—

I had a stomach full of storms.

The kind that clawed from the inside out,

pain so sharp it became a scream,

a scream that tore the air,

pleading with God,

"Help me. Help me bear this."

The vomit came in waves,

each one stealing what little I had,

leaving behind a hollowness,

a raw ache that screamed back at me.

It was a battle of force,

of pushing out pain

while it carved deeper into me.

And now—

Now, the battlefield has shifted.

The pain is quiet but no less brutal.

It’s no longer the stomach

but the soul,

no longer vomit,

but the weight of years,

of tolerating, absorbing, enduring.

My mind screams now,

not with sound,

but in silence that deafens.

My heart shouts,

"God, grant me patience."

But patience feels like sand

slipping through fingers—

useless, evasive, mocking.

I’m losing it—

patience, strength, will.

And yet, I keep screaming,

just as I did back then,

hoping that the storm will pass,

that the ache will ease.

But it lingers,

it stays,

it grows.

So here I am again, God.

Older but still pleading.

Give me something,

anything,

to hold onto—

a thread, a breath, a balm.

Be

cause this pain,

this screaming,

is all I have left.

The Girl Who Hates Unfairness

Hey reader I am back with another poem for you. I hope it resonates with you in some way or the other. Cheers 🥂

She’s not a saint.

She’s not some savior cloaked in glory.

She’s a girl—raw, bleeding, tired—

but relentless.

Life broke its promises early.

It handed out abundance to the loud,

the cruel, the stars-aligned,

while the soft-spoken were left with nothing,

hands empty, hearts full of questions.

She noticed.

And noticing became her curse.

Whenever she saw someone rejected,

someone folded into the margins of existence,

she couldn’t stop herself.

She gave them her time, her respect,

sometimes her heart,

always her peace.

She didn’t love them.

She didn’t dream of forever.

She just wanted to smooth the edges

of their jagged lives,

to make them feel seen

for once.

It didn’t matter if it wrecked her.

It didn’t matter if she lost herself,

which she always did.

She hated the abnormalities,

the way the world chose its favorites

and left the rest to rot.

She hated it so much,

she made it her mission to fix the unfixable,

to glue the shattered pieces of other people,

even as her own cracks deepened.

Now she drifts,

a speck in the middle of a vast ocean,

untethered,

asking the only question that matters:

Who will save her?

Let me know how can we save such people. Share your thoughts in the comments section below 👇

What’s Your Pattern?

 

Hey reader! Welcome back to Versebound . I am busy these days in preparing for my entrance examination, so I won't be able to write book reviews for a while. But don't you worry, I have got you. I will keep you entertained with my poetry pieces. 

Let’s play a game:

Close your eyes.

Think of the last time life knocked you down.

Now think of the time before that.

And before that.

See it?

That thread, looping, stitching, binding.

That’s your pattern.

Mine?

Mine is delayed happiness—

A bad joke with no punchline.

First, rejection slices me open,

bleeds me dry.

Then success waltzes in,

fashionably late,

dragging its feet,

apologizing as if I should forgive it

for arriving in pieces.

Does that sound familiar?

Do you feel it too?

The déjà vu of pain,

The clockwork of disappointment,

Like the universe wrote a script

And forgot to edit.

Tell me—

What’s your pattern?

Is it heartbreak on repeat?

Or shadows that follow you into new rooms,

wearing old faces?

And what do we do with this?

These maddening cycles,

these spirals that don’t spiral out,

but back in,

again

and again

and again.

Do we fight it?

Do we break it?

Or do we wear it,

like a second skin,

until we forget it’s even there?

Or maybe—

we take a needle.

Unpick the threads.

Undo the seams.

Watch the fabric fall apart

and weave something new.

But tell me,

and be honest—

Do you really believe we can?

Let me know in the comments section what do you think of it.

Solitude in Green and Red

Hey reader! Thank you for all your love and support on my previous posts. I am here with a new piece for you. This one's especially close to my heart. I am not just giving you a poem here, I am giving you a piece of me.

In the green stillness of my walls,

where red wallpaper shields

the creeping whispers of mold,

I sit, feet cocooned, unseen,

beneath a quilted veil of silence.

Paintings bloom and brood around me—

a bird in flight, fragile with hope,

a rose, blood-rich in petaled joy.

And there, an eagle sharp in shadow,

a woman drowning in her own tears.

Art that breathes, yet remains unsold,

its worth eclipsed by empty echoes

of contact lists I never owned.

God, why did you fold the world away

and leave me

to press my fingers into the void?

But—ah, the quiet revelation:

no daughter tethered to her father’s name,

no wife stitched to a husband's fame.

I am just myself:

a girl who paints her dreams alive,

who carves henna rivers on skin,

whose hair cascades like dark silk,

whose cheeks bloom like spring,

whose smile bends light into meaning.

Loneliness has edges,

but also wings.

It has taught me

to wear my name alone,

not borrowed or inherited,

but painted,

bold,

on the canvas of my own becoming.

Let me know how you find it in the comments section below.