i'm back, my old friend
once again, i picked up the pen
to make the smile on paper alive again.
colours are filling in my heart
and with you, i can see again
i never knew how blind i was.
you are the wonderful flower
that's being acknowledged by people
passing through the streets
then picked up, to gift to their mothers,
simply because of your exquisite beauty;
you are now her flower, and mine as well.
and without you, the wind carries me away,
and i struggle to find my path alone.
dreams would hurt me, the stars would shoot me,
and the lake would tell me to drown;
but then i'd wake up,
to see you by my side.

then i hug the world, and dream of better days with you.
with you, i know i can make it through.

life is a flower, an echo of laughter.
a scene of blooming  colors.
then there is a  gentle breeze near it.
then there is a ripple of fragrance.
then there is a shelter of desires around.
then that will hug you tight and encircle your eyes.
then In its will you will pluck it again.
then Below it there is a thorn like a spike.
then in the middle of blood flow there is a sharp pain.
then there is a scream from empty ground.
that no one listens to.
that's where your deficit is waiting for you.
life is a trial.
after the trial there is a beginning when a Flower withers.
there it Become petal one by one.
this is how the time of each flower is decided and fixed.
that how long it smiled in it's bloom.
but,
then will you throw it away?
no?
then You will save it by picking up it's petals.
then You will hold yourself up again.
then you will put it in the middle of book.
where your story begin to flow .
you  will write it up. How did you pass from flower to petal?
a paper that is Drenched in your tears, ink will  spread on it.
every word of it will be in  remembrance of your laughter.
then you will say, What a life like a fragile flower it was.
but dont left  this book in tears.
write on it   that how you will Encourage  to gather yourself again.
keep the book of the past with you, never throw it .
all the bad and worst have made you.
this book is asking you to feed this flower again.
it want to save a scene, where an innocent child to laugh heartily when he sees it blooming in its own color.
Writer : Kainat Rasheed

My heart started shrieking when she said love could not save us. “How else can you explain this?” I protested as I pulled my bleeding heart out of my hollow chest. “This old thing swears to be yours, and yours only” I said with a lump in my throat. “Here is my heart, it is fragile. Break it anyway, if you must.” I cried.

The flowers she picked for me still haunt me. “How cruel of her. To **** a blooming flower for a lover she soon will ****, softly” I thought, but my dancing heart did not agree with me. “Yield” Pleaded my heart. “Yield! Surender yourself to her”. And so I did.

The poet
of the night
closed her
eyes, and
dreamed of
little stars
as details
in the small
moment of
beauty she
beheld, as a
painting
once hidden,
now coming
alive before
her eyes, as
wondrous
as when
she had
first
met the
pages
of a book,
and held
them
more
dearest
than the
petals of
a flower
held close
to her
heart,
forever in
bloom.

The urgent care is the nursery
Where I choose my seeds with thought.
The doctor is the gardener
Who knows how to fix what I’ve wrought.

She sows the seeds inside my skin,
Yet not with a trowel or ***.
She uses a needle and surgical thread,
With budding knots lined up in a row.

Then she leaves me with my tidy ground
And some knowledge on how I should care
For the lined up plot she’s left to me,
Whose potential I’m required to bear.

The deep rivet I slashed into my skin
Is where the seedlings take root.
The blood from my veins keeps them moist
As the new blossoms stand resolute.

But when the weather grows dark and dreary,
My sprouts need cover from the cold.
So I bundle them up with jeans and sweats
To protect them and let them take hold.

But despite the layers I pile atop,
The small spiny blooms poke through.
I run my fingers back and forth,
And marvel at how fast they grew.

Then after they’ve grown for fourteen days,
I return to the nursery at last.
The gardener plucks and prunes and picks
‘Til the wounds and the blooms come to pass.

So now the perennials have passed us by,
And the sprouts have been taken to bin.
The wound that watered my seedlings’ through,
Has left but a scar on my skin.

A little green grew
in the grey and grey blue
in a world that was dusty and dark
in the form of a flower
with colours to devour
that could turn a city into a park
But the crowd passing by
in the black and black tie
hardly took the time or knew
through the crack in the strife
the hues and colours of life
blossoming beneath their shoe
yet stretching out its wild leaves
with a beauty to please
It was a sad, sad trample amidst the scuffle
the busy people passing by
who would not raise an eye
wondered “what scent was so, so wonderful?”
but the crushed fragrance blown
was all that was known
though they knew not what it was
for they’d never seen
that little, little green
it’s just the smell they now speak of

the tiny flower,
that grows quietly by my window seal-

still has her appeal to live;
as i water her daily,
to keep both her's and my dream.

for even when...

we grow through the toughest of times;
our deepest roots help us survive.

so shall we both grow-
tiny quiet flower; with the strongest of will.