The poems I write—
are whispers never meant to be loud,
yet laid bare,
naked in the eyes of the crowd.

Each line—a stitch on a wound unseen,
inked not with pen,
but the pulse between what hurt
and what unheard.

I write to rewind, to stitch tomorrow in today's seams—
and when both unravel,
I write for what is destined in dreams.

You may read what’s said,
but only I know how heavy silence grows
when carved on a blank sheet.

-

They taught us numbers, dates, and names—
And called it knowledge, framed in frames.
But what they missed, or failed to see,
Is what the subjects made of me.

Each page a whisper, not a fact—
Each theory, feeling held intact.
Not cold equations, void of heart,
But poetry in every part.

Biology showed me how to feel,
In cells and nerves, life made real.
History sang of pain and grace,
Of futures buried in time’s face.

Math didn’t just divide and add—
It taught me balance, taught me mad.
Economics? A lesson in lack—
In value lost, and earning back.

Every subject, a careful thread,
Weaving thought inside my head.
Not just to learn—but to become,
A mind where all ideas hum.

So no, the package isn’t the prize.
True learning opens inner skies.
A philosopher, born from every page—
That is the wealth of a scholar's stage.

-

Preserved

She wrapped a season in soft cloth,
oil-soaked, sun-dried, kissed with broth—
a language spoken through her hands,
sent with me across the lands.

I held it close, let time unfold,
took careful bites, let stories mold.
Each flavor hummed of rooms I knew,
of voices fading into view.

But heat arrived, unasked, unseen,
and turned her love from gold to green.
I watched it spoil, slow and still,
beneath the weight of city will.

And as I scraped the ruined part,
I felt a crack inside my heart—
not for hunger, not for waste,
but for the love I couldn’t taste.

-

Two lands, one soil, torn apart,
One dreams high, one breaks its heart.
India rises, rich and bright,
While Bharat fades into the night.

One crafts towers, learns to fly,
The other prays with hungry sighs.
In India, futures bold are made,
In Bharat, hope begins to fade.

But I dream of a kinder land,
Where hearts unite, and hands extend.
Not utopia — just something true,
Where none go hungry, old rest too.

Erase the lines, heal what’s broken,
Let love and care be our token.
Together rise, together grow,
And let compassion overflow.

-

For years, I’ve lived in borrowed space,
A small, bare room, no warmth, no grace.
A mattressless floor my nightly bed,
With market meals to keep me fed.

Each day I wait for a dream to bloom,
To build my own, a cherished room,
With faces I love, close and near,
A home that silences this constant fear.

But the truth claws deep—I often wonder,
Do they see me whole or torn asunder?
I shy from screens, the calls seem vain,
A year will pass before we meet again.

Technology’s promise, travel’s ease,
Have yet to find my pocket’s peace.
In search of meaning, I’ve grown aloof,
A wandering soul, a distant proof.

I’ve become Pluto, cold and apart,
Not quite a family, but tethered in heart.
Circling purpose, far yet near,
Longing for warmth, for love sincere.

-

Mist minds
In the heart of the city’s endless race,
Where time is scarce, and there’s no space,
People rush with heads bowed low,
In a hurried pace, they come and go.
Skyscrapers rise, touching the sky,
Yet no one stops to wonder why,
The clouds above, they drift and sway,
But who has time to look their way?

Amidst the noise, the hustle, the grind,
A moment’s peace is hard to find,
But if you pause and lift your gaze,
You’ll see the clouds in their gentle ways.
They move, they dance, they paint the blue,
A silent show, just for you,
So take a breath, and look up high,
Remember, clouds do move, if you try.

In this metro maze, don’t lose sight,
Of simple joys and pure delight,
For in the sky, a story’s told,
Of moving clouds and hearts consoled.

-

In this tempest-tossed existence, I stand,
A cornerstone of strife, my fate in hand.
Obsessed with battles, myriad and dire,
My heart, a parchment, inked with ceaseless fire.

Love, once vibrant, now rests in comma's grip,
A silent pause, a longing, a sinking ship.
The loop of fate, unyielding, unkind,
My soul entangled, heart and mind.

Yet poetry, my refuge, whispers solace,
A balm for wounds that time cannot erase.
In Shakespearean echoes, I find grace,
A sanctuary where my spirit finds its place.

So let ink flow, and quill dance upon the page,
For words are medicine, both solace and sage.
Obsessed with verse, I mend my fractured soul,
In sonnets and rhymes, I find myself whole.

-

In epochs past, a joy profound did I espy,
A maiden fair, with innocence in her eye.
As blooms a rose to greet the morning's light,
She shines, converses with the sun so bright.

No school of art her natural grace did teach,
Her dance through pain, a lesson none could preach.
And yet, she crawls through life's grand play unstaged,
Her laughter, a balm for wounds unassuaged.

Though reading's tough, her speech doth all enthrall,
With every penny saved, into the well they fall.
I pray the Maker guards her from all harm,
And keeps her safe, and ever full of charm.

-

یوں تو یہ آرزوء گفتگو ان دیواروں سے تو نہیں،
پر یہ صفاقت آپ سے، کیا صلہ دے رہا،
لکھتا آپ کے لئے، پڑھتے لوگ ہیں،

مگر سنتا کون ہے، یہ فسانہ میرے دل کا،
خاموشیوں میں بھی، ایک صدا دے رہا،
جو لب پہ آئے نہ، وہ الفاظ ہو تم،
ان لفظوں میں بسی، ایک دعا دے رہا۔

ہر حرف میں چھپی، بات ادھوری سی لگتی،
تیرے جام سے ساقی، ہر غزل پی رہا،
تیرے احساس سے مہکا، میرے قلم کا سفر،
تیرے عشق میں لکھ دوں، میں جہاں کی سیاہی۔

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رخسار پہ شبنم کا قطرہ، لاکھوں کہانی کا سیلاب تھا
دلِ آس ہمارا بھی تھا، کہ لکھوں ایک اور نظم تجھ پر
لیکن وقتِ رخصت کی دستک، نہ قلم چلنے دیا نہ جذبات کا اظہار ہوا

تیری یادوں کی بارش میں، ہر خواب بھیگتا رہا
میری سوچوں کا کاغذ، تیرے نام کی سیاہی سے رنگین ہوا
اور اب جب کہ تو نہیں، تیری کمی کا احساس دلاتا ہر لمحہ

میری آنکھوں کے کونے میں، تیری تصویر کا قطرہ چمکتا رہا
دل کی دیوار پہ لکھی، تیری یادوں کی نظم جلتی رہی
اور وقت کی رفتار میں، تیری محبت کا چراغ ہمیشہ روشن رہا

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