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She’s married now.
Six months gone,
And I’m still here
Talking to ghosts in my head.

We had plans,
Wild ones—
Run away, burn maps,
Name stars after each other.

And we did it.
We ******* did it.
Left everything behind like smoke trails.

But then she wept.
Worried about her parents—
Would they hurt themselves
If we disappeared for love?

She called her dad.
He cried.
That old man broke her
More than I ever could.

And I knew.
I knew I was losing her
The moment she said,
“Maybe we should go back.”

I took her home.
Even though it was killing me.
Even though everything inside me
Was screaming no.

Then came her wedding.
I begged her not to.
I cried like a boy.
But she didn’t move.

She said nothing.
She got dressed.
She walked into a future
That didn’t have me in it.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
A love once fierce, now a memory I keep walking beside—even when she chose a road without me.
During the chess game,
she made a good move.
I smiled a little,
typed:
"Nice"

Just felt right.
A simple thing.
No reply.
We played on.
It ended—a draw.

Then came her words.
First:
"indian"

I blinked.
Felt the air shift.
Then, second:
"monkey"

I just sat there.
Not hurt yet. Not angry.
Just… stunned.
Like: is this real?
I typed back:
"Why"

I added:
"You broke my heart"

I read it again.
Still stunned.
I didn’t know her.
Didn’t do anything.
We just played.

Then she dropped:
"virginity"

That word.
Out of nowhere.
Then:
"i no interesed"
"bye"

It didn’t sting.
It didn’t burn.
It just confused me.
Like the wind changed direction
and I wasn’t ready.

I wrote:
"Virginity?"
"What are you saying?"

No reply.
Just me,
sitting with a drawn game
and a question
I never saw coming.

Hope this poem reaches you.
To Juana Dayana
Of Colombia—
From HRS,
An Indian soul,
Caught in a drawn game’s pull.

- THE END -

© 2025 June, Hasanur Rahman Shaikh.
All rights reserved.
It was just a game—until it wasn’t. A simple move, a small smile. Then her words came—sudden, sharp, and strange. This poem is me, still trying to make sense of that moment.
Márk V Jun 6
Drink your beer, I don’t need that,
I need something else, a bit bigger bottle.
Not the yellowish kind, invisible,
or bitter-smelling drink I want,
I need a red drink, one
as red as raspberries.
Or perhaps blood-colored? Because
blood is life.
Maybe if I drink more,
it will give me life, too.

Ask nicely,
maybe I’ll offer you a cup.
If you can explain its meaning,
the whole bottle is yours, but
break it in half, so we share it.
You understand it like I do, that's why you deserve it.
If it tastes strange, drink it slowly,
if your throat's not used to it, endure it,
you’ll get used to it,
your state of mind will help you.

Maybe it intoxicates, but it gives strength,
right?
The others don’t do that,
otherwise every tavern would be full.
Its effect's eternal,
but helpful.
Its size surpasses the rest,
dominance, like from man.
Were you made by the gods?
Is that why your taste's so special?
Cadmus May 19
🚪

If your past knocks,
don’t answer.

It’s not here to talk

it’s here to wreck
what took you years
to rebuild.

Let it knock.
Let it wait.
Let it rot.

Just don’t forget:
some doors
are better sealed
forever.
This piece is a reminder that not every return deserves a welcome. The past, especially the parts you’ve outgrown, often carries the power to unravel healing. Strength lies not in revisiting, but in refusing to regress.
Elise Jackson May 18
a cursed cycle
the ancestral rite of passage
the last to see the sun
the first to see the fault

and ultimately suffer because of

it's a burden i've put onto my friends
the ones who show me what it would've been like
the opposite of a lonely child

the ones that undo the deafening silence of a pause screen
the ones who let me take a turn without raising their voice

they're the ones who remember what i say
and who i am
can you tell i'm a little mad
Lizzie Bevis May 14
Your mind is a waiting garden,
and life will give us seeds,
you can sow beautiful flowers
or you can nurture stubborn weeds.

The choice is yours,
to make in a thoughtful wake,
to tend to the delicate blossoms
or let the brambles overtake.

Water the garden with pride,
with thoughts pure and bright,
tear down any climbing doubts
and give way to the sunlight.

For what you will harvest
depends on what you sow,
your garden will flourish
and wisdom will grow.

So nurture each lesson,
and watch the petals unfurl,
in your garden of growth,
with the beauty of your soul.

©️Lizzie Bevis
Inspired by a wonderful mindfulness quote,
I was unfortunately unable to find the original author to give credit, but here it is in its inspiring glory:

Your mind is a garden.
Your thoughts are the seeds.
You can grow flowers
or you can grow weeds.
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