Poetry

By Parijat Pathak It didn’t happen with thunder. No divine trumpet, no celestial applause. Just a small, insistent knowing— that I was not made of silence, but of spark. My veins began to hum. Every breath turned to kindling. I walked through my own ruins and felt warmth instead of ache. What they called anger, I recognized as resurrection. What they named destruction, I knew as birth. I touched my scars and found embers. I opened my mouth, and the air caught light. This was

By Parijat Pathak Once, I knew the language of thunder. My name lived in the pulse of rivers, and mountains bowed when I breathed. But someone—maybe time, maybe man— taught me to whisper instead of roar. They braided obedience into my hair, poured silence into my throat, told me my power was unbecoming, that light should stay inside its lantern. So I became small enough to fit inside a borrowed story. I traded prophecy for politeness, fire for fragrance. Yet even in my quiete

By Parijat Pathak Beneath the quiet, something stirs. A spark—small, unassuming—breathes beneath the ruin. It is not rebellion yet, not light, just a pulse that refuses extinction. The world calls it weakness, but the earth knows otherwise. Roots grow best in darkness. Even buried, the seed dreams of sun. My silence began to sweat gold. Every ache, every withheld word, was a syllable of creation— a womb remembering its work. I did not rise yet. I listened. I learned the music

By Chen Hao Hua If I have to knock on heaven's door and say "you forgot someone" then that is not the place I belong!  For, I do not claim anything, I simply reclaim everything!  For, I am not becoming, I am the becoming! For, all those who knows not, yet speak much, I advise - scatter! For, the sun don't burn thinking it needs to give warmth! For, the waves don't rush thinking it needs to crash the shore!  For, the flowers don't blossom thinking it needs to feed the bees!  F

By Chen Hao Hua Worry, is the murderer of solutions before our eyes. Overthinking, is the murderer of peace in our mind. Stress, is the murderer of peace of all around you. Error, is the murderer of judgement you wanted.  Scam, is the murderer of wealth already in pocket. Lie, is the murderer of truth once was. Life, is the beauty of beauties. Love, is the beauty of emotions. Relationship, is the beauty of connections. Honour, is the beauty of the path. Collared, is where dre

By Pierakis Pieri —i. What blood claims— What flows in us was never truly ours. What powers our cells was forged in dying stars. What builds our bones once lay in ancient seas. What histories our blood has witnessed flow. What temporary forms our carbon takes. Who owns the earth that circulates within? (Atomic weight: 3 billion years) —ii. When elements become us: DNA— Calcium earth: carried oxygen in your first blood Iron earth: strengthens your bones even now Phosphorous ea

By Pierakis Pieri INTRODUCTION This manual provides guidelines for navigating memory’s weather patterns. Your past moves like clouds across inner skies. Learn to read these formations. Follow these instructions carefully. SECTION 1: WHEN CIRRUS THREADS YOUR EARLIEST SKIES 1.1 Accept the thin wisps of early memories as they appear. Their distance is not absence but perspective. 1.2 Create space for these delicate formations without attempting to pull them closer.  Practice rec

By Pierakis Pieri It used to be a cradle’s length, no more than arms could hold, a lullaby between two eyes, a hush, a hand, a fold. Then love grew up to cupboard knobs, to jumping for the light, to tracing marks upon the wall that whispered every night: "You’re taller now, I see it too." Love measured in a stare, in shoelace knots and backpack straps, in who could reach the air. Some years it shrinks, and hides away inside a coat too small— or tucks itself in quiet notes you

By Pierakis Pieri I. SYSTEM STARTUP LOG ENTRY 00:01 The poetry of it keeps me awake at night— how beautiful it is to watch it fall. Digital erosion more effective than any protest ever mounted. We don’t fire bullets. We rewrite gravity. Then wait for things to drop. In meetings, we call it “innovation.” In Slack, we call it hunting season. Smart bombs for smart times. The perfect crime leaves no fingerprints— just Error 404: Human Not Found. LOG ENTRY 00:47 That persistent gl

By Pierakis Pieri Berlin taught me: name your enemies. Seven names, seven addresses, seven red marks. Silent machines patrolled our street, while Papa’s hand shook over severance papers. They came without warning—gleaming, silent conquerors. Each arrival was a lost battle, each charging station a planted flag. My childhood home, once ours, now encircled by the quiet warfare of a future we didn’t choose. My friends were fire, they were teeth, they were war, swearing the city w

By Pierakis Pieri I. My son, this list I give to you is written with my trembling hands. When they come with papers stamped, when they speak of duty and of glory, remember this mother’s final gift— a love letter for your life. II. I search at dawn while Putin speaks arm + break + home + methods + painless My screen glows with desperate knowledge. Three hundred thousand men they want, but you, my son, will not be one. Better broken bones than no return. III.  Know Your Limits

By Pierakis Pieri age 6 The first idea came in the shape of a cloud that looked like a door. I ran to tell someone— but by the time I pointed, it was just sky. I learned: some things disappear the moment you try to share them. age 12 My pockets were full of ideas scribbled in the backs of notebooks— planets no one had named yet, games that made no sense unless you were me. They never made it to morning. Sleep is a thief. So is shame. age 17 I fell in love with a sentence I ne

By Pierakis Pieri To belong is not always to match. Some ideas arrive dressed in the wrong season carrying nothing but the ache of becoming. You try to make sense of them— but sense was never their goal. They knock, not to be recognised, but to be allowed. You’ll want to close the door. You’ll feel the itch to tidy, to align, to mute the note that doesn’t harmonise. But leave it. Let the discord echo. Let it shift the space between what you thought and what could be. Not ever

By Ellie Stokes The ice from your tongue brushes my heart, stopping it in its tracks. The rivers flowing through my veins all freeze simultaneously. The air in my lungs turns to thick black smoke. My lips turn blue, my eyes lifeless, my body motionless: a robot fueled by your regretful endorsement, frozen. The blizzard of words escaping your mouth makes me wretch. My body convulses, my brain a whirring ocean of freezing salt water. You force my chin upward and our eyes lock.

By Ellie Stokes I've been an actress For so long now That I'm not really sure How to let my guard down. I've learnt to be open And talk about my life But behind my smile Is so much strife. I won't talk about the present, Only the past And I'll disguise my pain By forcing a laugh. My mask is wearing thin, My face showing through, I'm starting to tire, I'm missing my cues. I'm battling myself Day in, day out; I'm fighting a war You know nothing about. I can fake all emotions, F

By Ellie Stokes I peered around The corner last night And saw him lurking, Ready to fight. I should've gathered my troops, Called on my allies. Instead I lowered my head And let him hear my cries. My cries of despair, Of exhaustion, of pain. I screamed through the storm But was drowned out by rain. He came closer, then - Slowly at first Then faster and faster, Screaming that I'm cursed. His claws were drawn, Ready to attack But when I didn't cower, He took a step back. The fe

By Ellie Stokes Someone else tried it exactly like I did. Only theirs worked. Mine didn't. "You're so lucky to be alive", "you should be grateful you survived", "you should be over it by now". I should feel lucky, I should be grateful, I should be over it, but I'm not. Because how, really, are we supposed to just "get over" something that should have killed us?? We survived while others didn't, yes. But we gained so much more: screams, cries, begging - it never leaves. It pla

By Ellie Stokes Dear reader, My stories will haunt you, torture you, and twist your mind in unimaginable ways. My writing is fiction, apart from the ones that aren't. You will never know how I wrote my poems, and I will never know how you interpreted them. But I share them nonetheless, for it is the rawness and vulnerability of art that keeps the beauty of this world alive. I write because I don't know what I think until I read what I say - it is my lifeline, my buoy out in a

By Ellie Stokes There are parts of me scattered  All around the world - Fragments of my soul left Where I was hurled. My grasp on them Used to be so tight, Holding myself together With all my might. Now my grip's loosening, And I can feel her slipping away - Every version of me, But that's the price I pay For having a wanderer's soul, Unable to keep still. For being a dreamer, Always seeking the thrill Of escaping everything With the freedom of the sky - The clouds below me,

By Ellie Stokes Anxiety is like an ocean, It comes in waves. Some are calm and bearable, Some leave you drowned in a haze. The freezing water fills you up From your head to your toe. It leaves you trapped and screaming But with nowhere to go. It seeps under your skin, Runs through every vein Yet nothing that you try Will ever make it go away. Anxiety is like an ocean With waves so high and deep That leave you locked inside this pit With walls too slick and steep. You'll run a