For so long I have been lost to myself, and pretty scared about it. I have often felt like a stranger in my own life. Wrong family, wrong city, wrong direction. So I’d look for new families, new friends, and new direction. Even stranger still. No fucking clue who I was or wanted to be or where I belonged. And sometimes I’d come close to who I wanted to be, and then I’d lose myself, over and over again. But I know I have this potential in me. I’ve always known, because I still haven’t found where I belong yet. This drives me forward. It means there is more in me. I want you to know that it doesn’t matter where you’ve come from, what family you were born into, or what may be pulling you backward, because if you believe you can be greater, then you simply will be. So if you’ve ever had the thought, ‘Hold up, I don’t actually want to settle for this. I want more out of my life,’ then get your feet moving and become your potential. #seekerpoetry
When you try understanding people, you realise that some things are better off unsaid, and that there comes a point when words don't matter. You ask why I don't tell you about my grievances, I ask you, "Do you really care?" You say yes, but I remain quiet.
You feel cheated in that moment. So, I suggest you to close your eyes and think how it feels when you share your fears with someone and that person enlightens you about how you sound shitty all the time. You often ask me why I am sad and I tell you, that melancholy has been my company for so long that I crave for it more than you.
You state that I only like it because it helps me write, and my eyes reflect my approval. It is true, Melancholy is indeed a writer's inspiration and Love, his art. But when my words start sounding hollow, you decide for yourself that they're fake. I don't intend to be rude, but will you look into my eyes and say that again?
I bet you will. And I bet I will still smile at you. The scars inflicted by your words is Melancholy, my euphoria for finally hearing your voice is Love. The smile that's gleaming on this face is your art. You say I am a writer, I point out that you're the one that writes all over my body. In truth, I am just a page.
Okay, seriously now. I am sad. Very often. But tell me the truth, aren't you? Just saying, maybe I care too.
//- Rajnish Jha//
Do you care? 🌼
For @meliinamaria who wanted a poem about too much silence followed by something she would have liked to know earlier
Let me start the story off by saying you loved me like silence, like layers of snow powdering your intentions, like hushed, bitten-off sighs when I was asleep.
That is to say you loved me all along and I never would have known.
I crawled on tiptoes, hands covered in kid gloves, like a Victorian horror story, like the shadow of the type of song played by candlelight. I was so careful to muffle the echoes of every too-fast pulse.
That is to say we both moved so quietly neither of us heard the loudness of our skin clashing.
We ended like an exhale, the predicted resolution. The math made sense, numbers orderly and sharp-edged. I found the shape of my vocal cords gathering dust in the back of my throat, you found someone to sing love songs into your smile.
That is to say we both recovered from the words we didn’t say.
And then you whispered, just once. And the breeze caught your voice and delivered it to me and I never realized I was still listening, breathless, but I felt the impact before I cradled the words in my hands and
That is to say that knowing changes everything. That my mouth opens and my response is on my tongue and I still do not know what it is.
That is to say, silence is overrated.