Read my thoughts on @YourQuoteApp https://yq.app.link/kZtlclHLsP
खुद को जला रहा हूं, खुद से ही मै देखो यारों
मुझे ये भी देखना है, ऐसी रात कितनी है
इस आजमाइश में लगा दिया है ज़िन्दगी दांव पर
के इश्क़ की मेरे आखिर...औकात कितनी है... वो कर ले जितनी कोशिशें, हर जुल्म आजमा ले
मुझे ढूंढ ले हर किसी में, हर शख्स आजमा ले
मै देखूं उसमे शामिल..... मेरी जात कितनी है
के इश्क़ की मेरे आखिर....औकात कितनी है... है यकीं मुझको इश्क़ पे, बेशक वो तोड़ दे
मुझे छोड़ के जो खुश है, तो हर खुशी वो मोड़ ले
मै देखूं उस खुशी की...बिसात कितनी है
के इश्क़ की मेरे आखिर....औकात कितनी है.... ये लत खुद ही खुद में, मै अब लगा के बैठा हूं
ज़िन्दा हूं उसकी आस में, या खुद को मार बैठा हूं
है हौसला मुझमें बाक़ी लेकिन....आगाज जितनी है
के इश्क़ कि मेरे आखिर....औकात कितनी है.... मजबूर मेरी वफाएं, उसको जो ना कर दें तो
मेरी ख्वाहिशों से उसकी शामें, गुलज़ार ना कर दें तो
मेरे इश्क पे है लानत उतनी.... ये आस जितनी है
के इश्क की मेरे आखिर....औकात कितनी है.... वो आएगा बेशक लौट के, मेरे दिल को ये यकीं है
परवाज़ हूं मै कोई, और वो मेरी ज़मीं है
मेरे खातिर वो मेरी ख्वाहिश हर जज़्बात जितनी है
के इश्क़ कि मेरे आखिर....औकात कितनी है.... #yogesh_agrahari#yqdidi#yqbaba#yqdada#yqtales#yqhindi#yqbhaijan#yourquote#wordsofwisdom#wordswag#wordporn#yourquotefanclub#yourquotes#mythoughts#hindishayari#poetrycommunity#poetryslam#mypoem#ehsas#dilkibaten#write#writersofindi#writersclub
• • •
Who is this judgement called Truth?
Such complexity and unconscious motivations
constructing a tangled mesh of stories entwined...
Where in this beautiful mess does Truth reside?
Is Truth a relative to Social Mores, Societal
Conformity, Religious Beliefs and so on?
If so, I don’t want to know Truth…
When I invite Truth in, I must
also invite Self Exploration
I must banish the enemy within
for it has no seat at my table of self discovery...
Truth is the universe full of mystery
and we are infinitesimal cells
in the circulatory system...
So i say just enjoy the brief ride
and don’t think too much
- Naomi Firestone
While meandering in and out of lanes as an everyday evening ceremony, my eyes fell upon these bougainvilleas. They offered no fragrance, but goodness, they were serene.
"Bee-o-yu-jee...", my mother would make sure I remember the spelling and would keep on repeating until I gave in.
I was only five or six then and my mother would walk almost a kilometer to take me home from school, everyday but Friday. Fridays were meant for father. My longing for Fridays then never ceased because I knew I'd get an ice cream. But now, I crave for more of those Monday to Thursday walks.
The long road that we had treaded for hundreds of days while coming home is rooted deep in my fond remembrance. And so is the bougainvillea tree that we used to cross every time on the path. The one that'd make my mother go "bee-o-yu-jee...". On some days, she'd pluck a flower and keep it safe until we reached home. She'd then place it safely in a little pot, in water. She adored those flowers and I know because when we moved between cities and we no longer had to walk that path, she never let go of the pot. Not even years later. Not until when we moved to a new house that had a garden and a bougainvillea tree, and she bought a new one.
When I saw this tree, I could not help and a smile ran through my face. Why, you ask? Because I was a child once again, with two pigtails, walking a foot ahead my mother who was carrying my little too heavy school bag. She's humming a song. Her favourite of Lata's and on the sight of tree, she suddenly goes, "Do you remember the spelling bacha?". "Yes mommy, bee-o-yu-jee..."
Some things have a way to make us dive deeper and beyond our superficial memories.
\\ Letter in caption
Hi, I know you don't want to talk. But I want to, whom am I? A boy who fell in love with you, fucked you and then chose somebody else over you. I know and I have accepted it a long time ago. I don't know what to say. Some nights I miss you, I miss you so much that I cry. I don't deserve you, for sure. But all I want is to see you once, that won't change anything, it'll hurt both of us, break you again and maybe break me too. I remember the way you used to kiss slowly, unlike others who rush into it. I am a shitty person and more than that, a shitty writer. They ask me to write about why I stay up at night, about guilt, about myself. I don't know? I really don't. To be honest, when she lay on top of me and kiss my chest, I don't miss you. When she kisses me good night, I don't miss you. When she says I love you and I can't hold my breath to say I love you too, I don't miss you. I miss you when I'm alone, I miss you when I smoke my cigarette till the filter burns, I miss you when I miss you. You say that you know I'll never come back, you say that what I have with her is real. You are right, you always are. I just wanted you to know that you ain't just a girl I used to love, fucked and chose someone else over, you are more than that. What? I too don't know and don't want to know. But I would go to the fucking Pluto and back for you, trust me, I would. But whom am I? a shitty person and more than that, a shitty writer.
I opened her WhatsApp chat and typed this. Just before I was to send, I copied it, then backspaced it.
🎉🙏День первый - мы стартовали! Наши авторы хорошо держались и собирали полные шатры!)
Кто на фестивале, ждем вас завтра. Программа насыщенная, писатели лучшие, площадка полезная. Ждем вас!)
👍Спасибо сегодня ребятам:
Эдуарду, за его лекцию о комиксах
😉Завтра второй день)