I was told that the way we write says a lot about who we are. The sentences, its structure, and every bit of word reflect a huge part of our lives.

Maybe, that’s why we are so afraid to let others read our work or why we keep our authors anonymous.

The only time that I let someone read my writing, the thing which I considered to be the most precious, it was called shallow. It was branded as something that’s trying so hard yet fails to amaze. It was dull and lacking, and these were the very words which fitted me.

I had no idea that my work would reek so much of the things which I tried so hard to hide. I thought I was good at fooling people that I had warmth and depth – so much substance that made me feel relevant. I didn’t notice that the only person I was fooling was myself.


never ending

even a dash of uncertainty is more than enough
it makes the hidden crawl out, cry out
it creates an outburst of all the things you kept inside

sadness, which comes pouring nonstop
it makes you feel stuck—
drowning your very existence

at rare times is joy
it raises you above everything
until you reach high enough to fall down. hard.

but the usual and most mediocre emotion
to be felt is none other than anger
it surges quickly and hits every nerve

i like it because it makes you feel powerful
capable to do anything that can hurt,
even just for a while; until it doesn’t
and you feel kinda awful
because i am and often as despicable