Dilemma

Hey reader! Enjoy the poem. Feel the power of words and tell me what you think of it.

What's the end of it?

Years of hardwork melting into nothing?

Meaning nothing?

You've been so unfair to me,

Leaving me like this....

You have declared that You will question me,

Who will question You?

With all Your unjust ways,

In our troubles, You don't participate.

You call it mercy?

What does mercy mean in Your dictionary?

Why haven't You specified the terms and conditions,

It's heavy on my soul,

The effort to come close to You.

How could You abandon me like this?

What about the hopes I had ?

So You just left me in pieces.

No one will question You,

Is this why You don't interfere?

You have created the project earth,

How come You don't bother.

You have left all matters to the end.

So the responsibility of my action's on me,

I'll do whatever seems fitting then.

How can I alone follow Your lead

When the whole world's upside down.

You think, I alone can fix this?

Have I got such blood in my veins?

Am I healthy?

Can I walk miles alone without fainting?

Can I run without panting?

Are my breaths easy and even?

I inhale, exhale, with no difficulty?

If I can't, 

What makes You think 

I can change it all alone.

If I can't, who else will?

 

Cycles of Grief

Life has a way of testing us, sometimes in cycles, sometimes in storms that seem to have no end. For years, I have faced these patterns—moments of despair followed by brief glimpses of hope. But this time, the storm lingers, and the darkness feels unyielding. Despite my best efforts to heal, I find myself trapped in a web of relentless struggles.

In this poem, I’ve poured out the raw emotions of living through this unending cycle—grief, exhaustion, and a faint ember of defiance. It’s a reflection of my journey, my pain, and the fragile hope that persists even when faith falters.

Here’s "Cycles of Grief"—a piece from my heart, for anyone who has ever felt trapped in the cycles of suffering.

Alone again, in this house of shadows,

Five years stretch like a river of sorrow.

I mapped the patterns of my despair,

Each cycle a storm, the air too heavy to bear.

Two years of pain, then a flicker of grace,

An unseen force pulling me from the abyss.

But now the wheel has halted its spin—

No light, no peace, only battles within.

I am prey to unseen pests, relentless, sly,

Feasting on my body, while my soul runs dry.

I’ve tried every cure, every desperate art,

Yet they linger, burrowed deep in my heart.

I thought I knew how this would unfold—

Suffering, then reprieve, as the universe foretold.

But the sky holds no promise, the stars stay still,

Every prayer I whisper bends to another's will.

My body bends too, frail as a leaf,

While my soul aches beneath this endless grief.

The faith I clung to now splinters, weak,

The words of hope, too bitter to speak.

And yet, there’s a rebellion within—

A defiance that flickers, refusing to dim.

If the universe watches, let it see:

This battered soul will not bow easily.

For even in decay, life clings fast,

And a broken spirit can outlast.

Perhaps, in this abyss, I plant a seed—

A quiet prayer that the universe will heed.

Mask Off

Tell me this—

What happens to a soul like mine?

Where “real” isn’t a performance,

And emotions don’t wait for an invitation to show up?

I laugh, I frown, I burn bright with rage,

No filter, no edit—just me.

But the world? Oh, they love a good disguise.

They line up in masks—

“Topper,” “Professor,” “Sweetheart,” “Success”—

And they want me to pick one too.

Wear a smile, they say,

And make it believable.

(But my face doesn’t do pretend.)

Because I’m living in a world

That loves the fake—it’s easier to digest.

My anger? Too bitter.

My truths? Too sharp.

My fight for justice?

“Relax,” they tell me, “why can’t you just chill?”

So I try.

I try being soft.

Fake sweet.

Soft as syrup, dripping compliments I don’t mean.

And guess what?

Suddenly, they’re listening.

Suddenly, I’m “nice.”

Suddenly, I’m invited to the party—

A puppet in their masked ball.

But when I rip it off?

When I say, “Enough!”

When I scream for the innocent,

For the truth, for the ones who suffer?

Crickets.

Empty chairs.

Eyes that look through me.

And here’s the twist—

It’s lonely being real.

It’s heavy being the one who refuses to pretend.

But you know what’s heavier?

Living a lie.

So let them talk. Let them hide.

Let their masks give them fragile comfort.

Because the world needs someone like me,

Someone like you—

To keep showing up, raw and unfiltered.

One day, they’ll see.

When their masks crumble,

When their pretenses tire,

They’ll wish they had the courage to be—

What I already am.

So I ask you:

If the world loves its masks,

Will you still take yours off?

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.

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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.