Solace in words

People passing by you, Blurry red and yellow hues, Carrying stories untold, Some warm, some cold But alas! You might never know What made their life glow, Or if they are going through some demise, All you can do is be nice, No one knows what shaped them this way, Maybe it was life’s another play, Never judge or hold a grudge, All of us are oblivious to each other’s story Someone’s downfall, someone’s glory.

Defeated, you collapse on your knees, Tears rushing down your eyes, Thinking it’s the end, You let your ambitions bend, But once a legend said; failure is a bruise And not a tattoo, Don't treat it as a taboo, There's hope, there's scope, Get up; clean your scraped knees, Get that charm back in your eyes, Don't be afraid to fall again, Falling down gives you all the experiences to gain, Come on! Start over, don't disdain, There's hope, there's scope.

They won't get it that it's not alright to touch someone without their consent, And it isn't something most recent; It started ages before, when the devil shouted "encore" Those nasty hounds come your way to have a good day, But that might be your life's worst, Making your tearful eyes burst, Those devils won't understand the pain, The regret that you can't be innocent again. Hey everyone! This is my 50th poem and a rising concern towards the security of girls in this global hue.

Dear Bestfriend,                           Now that you're going away, across the bay, I'll miss seeing you everyday, I'll miss our sessions with the mushy clay, The sandbox that turned us blue and grey, Our tug of war series till the rope frayed. Now that you're going away, across the bay, Oh I'd miss seeing you everyday. I hope and wish that you could stay, But everyone's helpless in life's play, But worry not, my heart is where you'll forever stay. I wrote this poem when I was 11 and my bestfriend Adyasha was going out of the station as her dad got posted to Delhi. Shifting and saying goodbye is the hardest part of being an army kid.

Forks aren't meant to be poked in everyone's meat, Or else even a generous amount of electroplating wouldn't be able to fight the corrosive defeat 

Books are a high to the reader’s soul, An escapade to its boredom, Food to its mind, And a companion to its solitary.

The war fields that carry the smell of blood; a soldier's blood, Call out for more, They've relished their thirst a thousand times, Yet quench for more. But look at our patriotic saviours, They care about nothing but their nation, Ready to relish the thirst of the badlands  for yet another thousand times.