Dewdrop Diaries

What color are his eyes? I don’t know how to answer that. They’re not just blue or brown or green— They are the color of moments I can’t quite name.  They’re the shade of early mornings, When the sky is still deciding Whether to wake up or linger in its dream. They’re the deep hue of words left unspoken, Of thoughts you glimpse but can’t quite reach.  His eyes change with the light, The way the ocean shifts with the tides. In the sun, they shimmer, Like gold dust caught in a breeze, But in the quiet, in the dark, They turn soft, almost gray, Like the clouds before rain, Full of something unspoken, Something heavy.  What color are his eyes? They are the color of trust, Of secrets shared in the middle of the night When no one else is listening. They are the color of warmth, Of laughter caught in the corner of his smile. But they are also the color of storms, Of walls built high, Of doors closed, Of distance.  His eyes are more than color; They are stories, Stories he d...

We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and maybe that’s the beauty of it— the uncertainty, the way each dawn rises like a question, a blank page waiting for our touch. We make plans, draw lines in the sand, but the tide comes, erases what we thought was certain, leaving us with something new, something we didn’t expect.  We don’t know what tomorrow will bring, and that is both the promise and the fear. We stand on the edge of today, looking into the mist, trying to catch a glimpse of what lies ahead, but the future hides, dancing just out of reach, teasing us with its mystery. We want to know, to hold it in our hands, to shape it into something we can control. But it slips through our fingers like sand, like time.  Tomorrow could bring rain, or it could bring light. It could be filled with laughter or laced with tears. We make ourselves believe we are ready for it, whatever it is, but the truth is, we are always a little unprepared, always a little unsure of what comes next....

She speaks to me  Fondly of  Passions and talents,  Guitars and music,  Stars and eyes.  Then,  Stop short  Apologizes for speaking at all.  All because  Somewhere, someone  Stopped her  When she talked,  Ignored her beautiful words,  And told her to shut up.  Said,  "Keep it down,  Nobody cares"

I never stopped writing you letters  I knew, you would neither reply,  Nor read them,  Still,  I wrote them.  It does not show something,  It does not reflect anything…  It is just a consistency in me  Without considering whether,  You exist or not.  My pages should know you,  My ink should show you.  That if someday,  Somehow,  Somewhere,  Somebody,  Reads you,  Should know how you lived in me,  FOREVER.  That, how I came across the world  Without you,  But still sensing your touch,  Moment by Moment.  I buried some letters;  Underneath the plants,  You planted,  Just to let them know,  And grow;  Under the shadow of your love.

Khoobsoorat sa lagta tha,  Voh sama,  Jisme hum kabhi,  Kiya karte they roz,  Intezaar,  Ek dusre ka,  Ek dusre ke liye…  Apnaa sa lagta tha,  Voh jahaan,  Jisme hum roz,  Jeeya karte they,  Or,  Ek dusre ko,  Diya karte they,  Vajah jeene ki…  Suhaana saa lagta tha,  Voh aasman,  Jisme mai roz,  Chaand ki Chhaya me,  Dekha karti thi,  Chehra tumhara…  Pyaara sa lagta tha,  Voh zamana,  Jisme hum-tum,  Khoja karte they,  Socha karte they,  Tarika naya,  Prem karne ka…  Iqraar saa lagta tha,  Voh sehlana tumhara,  Mere baalon ko,  Mere khayaalon ko,  Mere nigaahon ko…  Ishq hi lagta tha,  Voh dhoondhna tumhara,  Mujhe har shaqs me,  Mujhe har aks me,  Har aate-jaate;  Pal me,  Har beet-te;  Kshan me… 

I'm blinded by the lights, Dazzled by their false delight, They promise brilliance, a radiant gleam, But in their glare, I lose my dream. The streets are alive, buzzing and bright, But here I stand, lost in the night. My pain bleeds out in silent screams, Hidden beneath their golden beams. I write my sorrow in every line, Bleeding my pain in its own shine. Ink flows dark like the night I hide, But no one sees the storm inside. I call it poetry—these fractured cries, But it's just the language of goodbyes. Each word a whisper of a silent plea, A sorrowful commentary, unheard by me. The lights, they blind, but still I stare, A moth to a flame, lost in despair. Their brilliance masks the ache beneath, A hollow heart, a soul’s retreat. I wonder, when will the light reveal The cracks, the scars, the pain I feel? For every gleam hides a darker truth, A lost innocence, a shattered youth. But still, I write, I pour it out, Hoping to find a way through doubt. E...

Why does art go hungry, when it feeds the soul? Why does it starve in the corners of our minds, reaching out, its hands empty, while we feast on the ordinary, the convenient, the easy distractions? Art is the pulse beneath our skin, the heartbeat of something deeper, a language without words that speaks to us in shapes, in colors, in sounds. But still, it goes hungry, its stomach growling while we look away, too busy to notice its silent plea. We are told that art is a luxury, that it must wait until the bills are paid, until the work is done. We push it aside, saying there are more important things, more urgent needs. But what if art is the need? What if it is the quiet hunger we don’t know how to name, the emptiness we feel when we’ve filled ourselves with everything else? Art goes hungry because we forget how much it gives. We forget that it is not just a painting on a wall, or a song played in passing. It is the breath of our stories, the ref...

I ask the trees cheerfully  To always let me  Change along with their  Ever growing branches.  I ask the moon soulfully  To forever be my light,  Awakening me each night  To show me the beauty  Of a darkness turned bright.  I ask the sea calmly  To be my strength  So that I too  Can transform each day  Just like the waves do.  I ask the sky bravely  To welcome me  When it’s time for goodbye.  But most of all,  I ask the world hopefully  To help me see  All the things I can be.