Chiku Diaries

 I sometimes pretend candies are for kids,  But always wish to have some.  Always show thrillers are my type, But I know how much I fear blood. And never fail to judge childish fantasies, But I keep a secret to fly and soar high. To have wings woven of my dreams , As I touch the clouds and rise, Wings of purple feathers of glitters , Wings wide and warm is what I thrive for. Oh! but I lied that I never flew, I did with Wings of torment and woe ,  Tangled in the mess of my miseries and sorrow, Abandoning my body, deserting my home,  With the Wings I disgust the most ,  Happily, I fly in the sky above.

 An artist once painted a monochrome, Strokes of black, a pinch of white. An extravagant masterpiece, Yet fools of the kingdom scoffed, Their blinded eyes unable to grasp its meaning. They mocked the stillness, Dull and empty what they belived.  The king summoned the artist, Declared the work useless, And ordered him to flee. “Oh, My dear majesty,” the artist said, As the court rose in murmurs, “What men aspire their lives to be Is what they see before them. They call it a monotonous splash of grey, Yet forget that grey is what they live. They accept the colorless days, But rage when they see them reflected. We are told to celebrate the present, Not mourn its dullness. Yet when truth stands bare, It becomes unbearable.” The king stood silent. He saw not the painting, But the lives behind it. Those who had long abandoned color Declared it the finest work the kingdom had known. The artist stayed. And the monochrome remained,

First things first, a big sorry to everyone I hurt last year. I genuinely hope this year I can make more people smile. That said, I’ve never fully understood the idea of a “new beginning” just because it’s a new year. Isn’t every new sunrise a new beginning? If so, why don’t we celebrate that instead? They say the present is called a present because it’s a gift. Something we’re meant to live and enjoy. Yet by January 2nd, life goes back to the same routine. Nothing really changes. We just change the last two digits while writing the date. People carry so much stress and worry, yet still follow silly Instagram trends like eating grapes at midnight , hoping it’ll magically bring them love. Aren’t humans a little funny sometimes? (Yes, I did it too. And yes, I laugh at myself.) My mom always says how you behave on the first day of the year decides how the rest of it will go. That makes me wonder: if we can celebrate and smile so freely on one day, why don’t we try to keep that smile ...

 Good day, dear reader, if you're still here, reading this. This isn’t a poem or a quiet confession, just a simple announcement. I’ve decided to step away from writing, not temporarily, but for an indefinite period until and unless that deep urge to write returns, the one that once made it feel natural to put thoughts into words. It’s not an easy decision, and yes, there’s a quiet regret in saying this, but for personal reasons, I’ve chosen to pause. To anyone who has ever read, related to, or returned to this blog, even silently, thank you. I don’t know if this space will ever be active again, but if it is, I hope it’s because the words came back on their own, gently and honestly. Until then, take care of your own stories, because they matter more than you know.

 What’s the place where you can’t sleep? You can’t cry, you can’t weep. You can’t smile, you can’t dream And being appreciated? Forget it. Who are these people, veiled in lies, Acting like they care, But only about themselves inside? No, it’s not a room Filled with faces unknown. The red eyes belong to our dearly “own,” Ready to drown you in their screams, Ready to cage you in their dreams.

  Words like knives on her nape Haunt her days, shatter her nights. A sense of void Within her gut Wrenches her soul Tangled and tight. Hundreds of hands Offered for handshakes, None that open their arms. Taking the words, She weaves a skirt, Adorns it with red. Too faint to paint her wrists, She clings to the skirt And the ache it brings. With every cut, from the skirt Her smile grows wide Walking into the roads Bleeding and quiet  

 Yes, I don’t remember your face perfectly only the blur of something warm, like a half-remembered song I wish I could hum again. Yes, I was silly, never asked your name, in a store that smelled like dust and detergent and quiet shelves that didn’t care we were there. But still— butterflies. The real kind. Wings that fluttered from your glance to my gut. And I swear you felt them too. Our eyes spoke in glances too loud to ignore. The wind kissed your hair, coffee skin caught in flickering light, Acne kissed your face, not something to fix but something that made you real. I was stupid enough to hand over my Instagram ID, not smart enough to ask for yours. But maybe that’s just me. You weren’t some fairy tale. No shiny armor, no prince pose. You were just you. And that was enough to make me smile. No roses bloomed at our feet, but your presence was enough. And yes, I’ve been ridiculous ever since checking my phone, just to see your name pop up.

 (PS: It's a raw poem with bare minimum rhyme scheme, it just popped up in my mind, so yeah, it's fine, it gets more criticism than others, yet I hope y'all still like it) Yeh baarish bhi kitni ajeeb cheez hai Kisi ke liye chai aur pakode ka mausam, kisi ke liye bas bheeg jaane ka darr. Kahin pyara bhara kahin sirf kapde sukhane ki kich kich. Zyada ho jaaye toh baadh, kam ho jaaye toh sukha. Aur agar beech mein ho, toh log yaad bhi nahi karte. Log toh baarish se bachne ke hazaar tareeke leke ghoomte hain kabhi chhat ke neeche, kabhi chaate ke tale, aur kabhi seedha kaam se bhaag jaate hain. Par ek cheez hai, jo kabhi nahi bhaagti. Na kabhi shikayat karti, na kabhi bachaav chahti. Bas khadi rehti hai, chup-chaap. Mitti.   Ane na ane ka shikayat nai Bas intezar Barish aye bhi toh uske taal mai mehak jati  Kaam ho ya zyda Rang na toh bas pani ke rang mai hai  Lekin agar yehi barish pyar hoti? Logo ke hato mai chata  Apne kaam se ghume bhatke Aur kuch log  Bas ...

 World full of masks  some shaped like home. Familiar smiles, voices you’d bet your back on. They nod when you speak, but feast when you leave. Laugh with you, then laugh at you. You’re the bite in their next chew of gossip. "Eyes say it all", they say Yet cement theirs with care Cold behind the shimmer, Intent wrapped in glare. Likes in lullabies But knives behind the smiles So you wear your silence, And just nod to survive.