Knowing about ourselves is the prettiest,
selfless journey one could travel,
attending to one's impatience with more patience,
selfishness, greed, the bad knots,
undesirable desires, unhealthy habits—
untying them gently,
nurturing what is kind and pure,
watering the roots of truth within,
and blossoming into the soul
we were always meant to be.

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Vibes don’t lie—
days may play,
moods may swing,
seasons could spring,
emotions may leap,
thoughts may linger—
yet the aura you carry within
is what truly speaks it all.

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A rare few,
who never judge, just see you—
as you are.

They tend your flame,
quietly fuelling your rise and glow.

When you fall,
they light up your darkness
without needing to say,
"I'm here."
They just are.

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The quiet success of a soul
is when someone trusts your path,
asks no heavy questions,
doubts not your pace—
just walks beside you
believing you’ll reach.

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🌟 The God 🌟

God is not as it is seen,
But like a ray of light — serene,
A warmth that settles storms within,
Silencing chaos, calming skin.

It’s not an idol carved in stone,
But quiet strength we call our own —
Peace in chaos, light through pain,
A healing touch, like gentle rain.

It is clarity through the haze,
A flicker of hope on heavy days,
Strength to rise, no need to hide,
And restful sleep when tears subside.

A healthy body, hearts made whole,
A filled stomach, a nurtured soul.
In a world where hunger still survives,
Its grace ensures the spirit thrives.

It lives in eyes that understand,
That feel your hurt and hold your hand.
Even through the pouring blues,
It lifts you up and helps renew.

That one pure energy we lean upon,
When doubts arise but hope lives on —
The light that guides us through the dark,
That sacred presence is The God. 💫

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Maybe things feel like a mess on toast,
but hey, your best is still gourmet effort —
just like dancing like a dork
when nobody’s watching —
but your soul is clapping,
and being genuine,
even when not a single eye is on you

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You’ll get n shots —
and n faceplants too,
Till you break the loop
and change what you do.
Same old habits, same old dread,
'Til you finally see: the roses are red,
not just thorny.

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Never hurt them,
not for them primarily, but for you,
never hold the anger,
not for 'em, juz for you,
ever never wish bad for whoever,
not for 'em, yet for you,
never compare an horse and a deer,
belittling horse, not for horse,
but for you,
Cuz never let the bad cells build your nerves,
with self-pride, ego, stinky thoughts,
to build yourselves mighty, bigger,
a person for life by nature.

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The richness is this—
a return to yourself,
the time carved soft and slow, just for you.
The world set right in your quiet cocoon,
steps counted—ten thousand strong—
feet humming stories into the ground.

The richness is
the sleep that follows a day well-lived,
tired, but not empty.
It’s morning stretches unfolding like petals,
whispers of affirmations brushing your breath,
and a journal scraped with truths of the soul.

It’s water kissed with purpose,
sips that heal from the inside out.
It’s that one song that rocks you into silence,
a lullaby for grown hearts.
It’s your favorite savoury at twilight,
a hint of blackcurrant paired with crunch—
a ritual, a joy.

The richness is
small grooves under warm light,
a muffin’s hug,
velvet bites that melt with the dusk,
and soft, unspoken twilight sips.

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Sindhoor is, only good,
when there is no ashes of
militants, innocents, civilians.

All civilians blood is red.

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