Welcome to ‘The Pocket Diaries’ a global platform for every talent, a suburb for passions palpitating beneath the thick layers of necessities and indeed an initiative to unfold innumerable hidden talents forth you.
A peculiar concept to bring your dreams to existence by providing you the very platform you always dreamt off. An opportunity to publish your works worldwide and indeed an
endeavour to provide you a ‘mysa’ in this contemporary incessant world.
“What is a suicide?” questioned the lecturer.
“A murder executed psychologically.” echoed a grave voice in the class.
Delve deep into those beguile eyes and feel the innocence for you, you may find your the lost mirror too.
What do you hide beneath these thick night clouds? Memories? Truth? or yourself???
I have book of incomplete poems,
I look at them first and then at myself
Just like me they got some feelings which only I understand
And probably some stranger would find them utterly meaningless syllable.
Just like me they are incomplete yet complete.
They are trying to find words which will complete them,
Just like I try to find you to complete me.
I have a book of incomplete poems,
and probably you will help me in making them complete.
मेरी राह कितनी बेवफा है तू।
तू ही मिटाती है उठाती भी है तू ॥
तेरा ना कोई आगाज़ हुआ ना कोई मंज़िल है तुझसे।
पर अपनी स्याही से यादों की पंक्तियाँ छोड़ जाती है तू ॥
वक़्त तेरी शमशीर है।
रफ़्तार तेरी नज़ाकत॥
फरेब की आग से भी तालीम की राख छोड़ जाती है तू ॥
इस चाँद की धुन से
इस सूरज की मस्ती से
मुझे तूने ही मिलाया है ॥
इस बारिश की जउबान से
इस बिजली की यलगार से
मुझे तूने ही मिलाया है ॥
इश्क़ की सादगी से।
दुनिया की तकल्लुफ तक॥
जिंदगी के कितने नकाब तूने हटाए।
ऐसे कितने रोज़ हैं तेरे पास बता ज़रा मैं बेसबर बहुत हुईं॥
तुझसे जिंदगी में कितना कुछ जान लिया।
पर तुझसे ही मैं अनजान हूं॥
महज अपने अल्फ़ाज़ों में ही।
तेरा वजूद ढून्ढ रही हूं मैं॥
Dear, for a moment just close your eyes. Tell yourself to calm down. Nothing in this world is more important than your internal peace.
I still remember staying up all night composing this one on the first of April, twenty seventeen. A poetry inspired from the relation of a dark cloth and a pure thread. It goes like-
This saga ain’t about bloodshed,
but about love between cloth and a thread.
The thread was pure white and delicate,
the way it would heal others was great.
But, that thread was in complete contrast,
to the cloth dyed in the colors totally dark.
The thread asked to fix that bruised cloth,
Listening to this, the cloth never healed before, was shocked.
He tried to warn the thread,
“I am dangerous” he said.
But she didn’t fear and took a pledge,
standing on that fatal edge.
The edge between the true light and dark,
where indeed grey had to fall.
Either in the light, and develop a spark,
or in the dark where sinners crawled.
The thread committed she would make him change,
and for the cloth this much affection was strange.
No fabric knew whether it was a boon or bane.
Weather it was a matter of pride or shame.
And their ostensible love was disrupted,,
for Time, the ultimate destroyer was there.
He snatched away the delicate thread
and left behind merely despair.