they may carry children
with cotton-candy-tinted glasses,
or adults who nudge the world
to align with their visions,
or the elderly who see a path
of golden light ahead of them,
or animals who always beam
around their fellow humans,
and...
they carry children with shoulders
that know the weight of the world
or adults who see their dreams shattering
all around them like a broken mirror,
or the elderly who can only see gray clouds,
wondering when the darkness will lift,
or animals who are suffocated by the noise
and crave the fresh air and blue skies.
these vessels carry more stories than
the number of stars in this infinite universe.

sometimes my nimble fingers
slide across these coarse pages
subconsciously but smoothly
as if having a conversation,
filling these blank pages
with ghost stories
collected from the sages
of past ages unknown,
almost flirting with my sanity
running off on their own
like a free bird
talking to me
'Hey, are you reading this?
Look, I'm writing poetry!'.

You and me, we share no stories,
no convergences.

There are no bridges binding together the extremes we breathe in. There are no constellations connecting the dots of our reality. There are no heartstrings holding us together. There are no poles to measure the distance by which we are apart from each other.

There is nothing common between you and me except the fact that we dream under the same blanket of darkness, shades of that blanket might be different at times yet, you shiver, sweat and squeeze just like me.

You and me, we share no stories.
What we share are just some nightmares, nightmares we can't ever swap.

-Prachi

When I looked at the amazing night sky,
I promised myself to not to cry
I slipped back to my stories,
where once my childhood stays
memories once locked, unlocked cause of the sight
sitting at doorstep on my mother's lap,
never runned out of stories even if water doesn't from the tap
Immersed in her stories,never knowed the food which had
too much salt
now I'm craving for her stories which was once came into halt
reminiscing those old good stories of her,
I wish,I could become a child again...

To open their eyes
It's not disguised

Facts not opinion
Never marked as a minion

Stories broad and deep
For all my readers to keep

Cities abroad to discover
No room for a lover

Satisfied to raise
Even a bit of malaise

Another feature completed
Silence defeated

Penned with delight
Now it lives in plain sight

She sleeps on a bed of roses and finds a new way to lie each day, forever changing poses.
The thorns may sting but if she continues to sing she would never feel a thing.
The world she knows only grows while she dwells in the shelves and the roses.
She sings to an empty audience and feels so very seen.
The battles fought are all for naught if she can’t be the queen.
The chips aren’t just for poker, and hair ties aren’t simple or plain.
She left it all to answer the call and run until she can feel sane.

Find me a frame
To capture the moments in my brain
Now I write you ballads and sing the refrains
The stories are all that remain

She sleeps on a bed above the abyss, thinking that you couldn’t possibly miss
The cries for a reprise and the screams for a different scene.
The moments when you saw it too.
She jokes and sings and always brings a new punchline at the end of the fight.
The masks she wears are how she bears the pain that’s already set in.
The light has left her long ago and she’s acting as if she can possibly win.
She took a chance to flee from romance and flirt with the dancers in her mind.

Find me a note
To summon from deep in my throat
Now I write you ballads and sing the refrains
The stories are all that remain