POETRY

By: Kashaf Fatima 

There are places that still remember

Who I was, before I knew,

what leaving felt like Grass used to be taller than me ,

Sunlight felt like a laughter 

My fingers stayed dirty from digging holes 

To hide the secrets, 

I thought no one ever found, 

My laughter still stains the empty swing in the backyard 

Woven into creaks of it's chain, 

The hush of air moving through it , 

Like it's trying to call me home 

And, 

I stand there older, 

And wondering how a bit of rope and sky can still hold so much of  

Who I used to be……

Author's Bio

Hiiiii!!! Kashaf Fatima is a nineteen year old writer, graphic designer and creative director from Pakistan who lives at the intersection of literature and the cosmos. Founder of Astreon — The Youth Observatory and Palimpsest, she has built creative spaces from the ground up driven by nothing but curiosity and an refusal to be ordinary. Her words have found homes in multiple literary publications, her designs have shaped the visual identity of global magazines and her research has explored the universe from black holes to the forgotten women who mapped the stars. She does not fit into a single definition and she never intended to.

By: Phaguni Shrivastava

some mornings, my inner child whispers

you are a paper boat,

folded with wonder, floating in wild rain.

hold me close,

even when storms pull at your own edges.

and I nod,

as I wrap her in my cardigan of thoughts,

promise her bedtime storieseven when sleep tiptoes away.

I still hum lullabies

to my own bruised echoes.

I cry when I see a bird with a limp wingI think of how it still flies, still tries.

I want to hold everyone,

but I barely have arms to hold myself.

silly me!

I forget my own corners

just to make space for others.

but my heart reminds me

you’re irreplaceable.

I tuck fears under my pillow at night.

they whisper in thunder

and rustle like wind inside my chest.

still, I kiss them gently,

like wild things learning to trust.

grief visits like a stray cat

uninvited, familiar,

curling up beside joy without asking.

And I feed it silence

and a little bit of light.

on the aches of my heart,

drowning into the world,

my mind handles this silliness

like a weapon.

sometimes, i feel like mist

soft, unseen, passing quietly

through crowded places.

but isn’t that a kind of magic too?

I collect compliments like fallen petals

press them between pages of books

I will never finish.

They're my bookmarks on hard days.

I say sorry even when it rains.

I thank people

for things they don’t notice doing.

I speak to the moon in hushed thoughts,

but when the world forgets kindness,

i want to shout into the ground,

“I still care! I still care!”

like that matters.

silly me.

I carry love

like it’s the last soft thing

in this loud place.

when it aches,

even when I'm tired.

and maybe that makes me fragile

but maybe

That also makes me free.

Author's bio

Phaguni is a writer, who writes from the deepest corners of her heart. She believes the world often forgets to feel, and through her words, she tries to remind it gently. Along with being a student, she is someone who turns her own emotions into stories that heal. For her, writing isn’t just expression, it’s the place where she transforms her inner world into something others can hold.

By: Sara Hamayun

Blow out the candles, each flicker of flame whispers a memory, the light reflecting the glow of my childhood.

I watch, as the smoke disappears into the ease of remembrance, it swirls in patterns like the old paintings on the fridge.

The cake knife glimmers, a sword forged by time, the soldier, an adolescent who's hand is in mine.

Oh, eighteen approaches, a threshold of fear. The weight of the future brings forth a salty tear.

The sound of childhood echoes in the breeze, in the golden glow of sunlight through the swaying trees.

We danced with simple wishes, little body but a world so wide, as the time slipped through our fingers, grains of life.

I stand in my family’s warm embrace, a bitter-sweet serenade to the past that drifts away.

Blow out the candles, let the wishes take flight like stars, pure and bright.

Author's Bio

Sara is a writer from pakistan who's writing mainly focuses on essays and poems

By: N.E Kiullczar 

The landscape is green.
Lime green.It's the walls of a little boy's nursery.Thires a windowAnd a wicker rocking chairAnd a secondhand cribAnd a spider in the corner.And the boy is lying in the crib.
he's looking at the Spider. The Spider isn't.
《poor little flea.》
The Spider crawls on him nowCrawls on his stomachand crawls on his neckAnd crawls on his feetAnd crawls on his armshe doesn't understandhe doesn't understand
he DOESN'T understand
he won't. She will.
The landscape is blue.
Denim blue .It's the fabric of a little boy's jeansThey are too lose
There's a rips at the kneesAnd an open flyAnd a Rabbit at his feet.And the boy is sitting in the grass.
He's smiling at the Rabbit. The Rabbit isn't.
《don't hop away.》
The Rabbit sits on him nowSits on his lapand sits on his thighsand sits on his crotchand sits on his kneesHe can't understandHe can't understand
He CANNOT understand
He'll cry. She won't.
The landscape is purple
Deep purple..It's the blanket on a teenage boy's bed.There's a lampAnd its veary veary dimAnd a glass of waterAnd a bear standing right there.And the teenage boy is lying in bed.
he won't look at the Bear. The Bear makes him.
《You are prey》
The Bear will devour him now.Will devour his mouthWill devour all his teethAnd devour his tongueand devour between his legsHe will understandHe will understand
He WILL understand
he leaves she brings him back.
The landscape is red.Bright red.
It's the blood of a young man.There's a towelAnd its soaked straight throughIts silent in that roomAnd he is finally alone tonightAnd he's laying on the shower floorAnd he understandsBut he doesn't understand
HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND WHY HE DOESN'T UNDERSTAND WHAT HEDOESN'T UNDERSTAND BECAUSE HE CANNOT UNDERSTAND WHEN
WILL HE UNDERSTAND
The Spiders corps watches from her web in the cornerThe Rabbit's pelt is is living from rugThe Bear's head is somewhere in the attic.
She's there. He's not.
The landscape is turning black.
Pitch black
It's the end of something, the man knows.
I've loved you whispers the spider
You were beautiful sung the Rabbi
And you were mine growled the bear
I know.I'm sorry.I can't.I hate you.I miss you.I know.
I'm not a landscape
《Anymore 》

Author's Bio

N.E Kiullczar is a 16 year old aspiring poet who is heavily inspired by beat poetry. He likes to explore the effects that society has on the individual through a lens of realism as opposed to optimism. Though he likes to keep his poems rather bleak most of the time, he also likes to explore lyrical writing as well. He has been featured in many independent art/writing magazines, and hopes to publish his debut collection of poems by March, 2027

By :Thobejane Mantepu Victoria

You’re my coffee before the world wakes, steady and warm, 
Your hoodie finds my shoulders before I ask. 
Best friend, you say I bite back a smile, 
Loving you in ways that make friendship fragile.

When my voice shakes, you don’t try to fix, 
You just stay, and pull me closer in the quiet. 
Friends shouldn’t feel like fire in their fingertips, 
But your hand on mine keeps setting me alight.

We dodge the word ‘love’ like it’s a live wire, 
Yet you memorize the maps of all my moods. 
You kiss my forehead when the night gets heavy, 
And call it “keeping watch”I call it being yours.

You see the girl before the brave, before the mask, 
Love me without asking, without making me ask. 
If this isn’t love, tell me what we should name 
The way we move like one flame.

We trace the line between ‘almost’ and ‘always’,
Your laugh against my ear, a dangerous kind of home.
You swear we’re just friends, lips grazing my temple,
And I let you lie, because the truth tastes like honey.

So we stay here, in this soft, reckless in-between,
Where your arms are my favorite kind of sin
No labels, no promises we dare to keep
Just you, loving me, and me, loving you in my sleep.

By: Immaculate Thee Poetess (Wanga Mathele)

I have no memory of my childhood
No nostalgic memories of my inner child
Nor do I miss my childhood
Or is that what I tell myself?

Hear me out
Every part of my childhood is tainted
Every phase looks likes a psychiatrists notes
A map to my underlying mental state
A well guided book to triggers of bipolar

An authentic museum of my trauma
So authentic it’s an open roof
Where the rain pours in forest-like
Lightning lights up the cracked walls like Christmas lights
With mirrors that reflect everything but HER

So in a world that took away her childhood
Reaped the innocence out of her heart
Stormed the light out of my eyes
Harvested anger and emotional insanity
As I cover my face with my small child like hands

I’d like to believe my childhood is a rundown abounded carnival city
You can hear the echos of laughter that once filled through the city
The dusty rides that holds memories
It’s so big you can feel the emptiness and how hallow it feels.
The breeze is cold but not more than the hugs I never received at the age of 7

Although my heart still seems to plake at the point that this is the same world that took my childhood before my tiny hands could grasp it

By :Thobejane Mantepu Victoria
Echoes of love, now just a lie, Memories haunt, I wonder why, Delusions cling, though you’re gone, Leaving me with just this empty dawn.

Shadows dance upon the wall, Whispers of what we had, before the fall, Tears fall like rain, through the night, A heart beats alone, without your light.

In the silence, I search for peace, A fleeting thought, a moment's release, But like sand between fingers, it slips away, Leaving just sorrow, night and day.

Time moves on, though I remain, Stuck in the past, in love's refrain, Fading echoes of what we were, A bittersweet reminder, of what is no more.

By: Thobejane Mantepu Victoria
 
My mind replays our final words, a loop of pain
A tape that won't stop, a heart in strain
I replay the moments, the choices I made
Wondering where it all went wrong, the mistakes I've played
 
If only I had spoken up, or listened more
Maybe things would be different, maybe he'd still be here for sure
I question every decision, every step I took
Torturing myself, with what-ifs and if-onlys, a constant hook
 
The weight of guilt and regret, it presses down
A heavy burden, a weight that I've never known
I'm lost in a sea of self-doubt and fear
A prisoner of my own, unable to break free from here
 
But maybe, just maybe, it's not all my fault
Maybe some things were meant to unfold, a different path to take
Maybe I'll learn to let go, to release the pain
And find a way to heal, to love again.

BY: Immaculate The Poetess
Does one heal?
Does the soul ever find peace
where the needle ache in the throat stop
when does the pain shoved down my throat stop
when do I finally feel myself breathe
Not a breath of a short sided relief
the breath that comes with the cold breath by edge of the mountain looking down the waves of the ocean
without that whistling sound
The whistling sound of engraving screams
The silent screams to jump over
When do the voices stop
I have a pen in my hand
But the end contract is blurry
Do I still sign?
Does ending the voices mean ending my life
Am I signing my death certificate?
Feels like watching one end of my grave being dug up while the other end the soil already reached my mouth
I can’t move an inch
This sounds like the deadliest silent scream
I have everything I ever wanted? I think
I’d like to believe so, not everything but some
Is it everything if the escape route leads me back to the hole I escaped at 18
Did I even get what I wanted if I end up back where the failed suicides attempts lay
Is this a scream for help ?
I don’t know but i know the boogie man was never under the bed
He was always where my mind is
And what scary is not that he comes at night
But that he seems to be one with my mind
The sad thing is watching the heart hope for a loophole in a system created by the boogie man himself.
 

By: Victoria Thobejane 

In paths unwinding, I wander alone

A map forgotten, direction unknown

The stars above, a distant hum

Guiding lights, but none have come

In silent darkness, I search for my way

A reflection stares, with eyes that sway

The wind whispers secrets, of a distant past

A journey's lesson, that will forever last

In quiet moments, I hear my heart beat

A rhythm steady, a pulse to repeat

The world's loud noise, fades into the night

A peaceful calm, that brings new light

In paths unwinding, I find my own pace

A step forward, a journey to replace

The unknown path, becomes a familiar ground

A sense of purpose, that's finally found

In silent reflection, I find my voice

A whisper growing, a choice to rejoice

The world's expectations, fade from my sight

A personal truth, that shines with new light

In darkness fading, a light begins to shine

A guiding star, that leads me to align

My heart and soul, with purpose and with might

A journey's end, that's bathed in morning light

By: Aster Fong
I never wanted you to see me the way I saw you. Maybe, when I am done dissecting myself and will learn to do something else that doesn’t involve
spilling my insides onto the floor wherever I go, this will be the last time I will ever write about you. Your voice is a distant memory and your face is
merely composed of features that have been washed away with time, but you were something to me — a friend I no longer hear from, the
ex–boyfriend of another friend who I had no idea you dated until she told me, two years after you broke up with her. How did you end up together
even if it only lasted for a moment, four or five months of your lives trickling between your fingers like sand, even when she said you treated her like
scum?
Don’t get me wrong. I do not wish that you, not even fleetingly, would have seen something worthy in me and liked me instead. Would it kill anyone to
tell me something, however, and were you my first love? If somebody were to ask me, those exact syllables falling from their lips, I wouldn’t be able to
conjure an answer. See, I’ve felt affection for people, and sometimes, I long to hold them close and keep them in the palm of my hand so they do not
run away. You, however, are a different story. Perhaps, from the moment we met I have known that there would always be a distance between us no
matter how many sweets you offered me, no matter how many games we played, no matter how many messages we sent each other. I’ve seen your
dog. You’ve seen mine, too. Perhaps, this is the closest glimpse inside your life I will ever have.
Thank you for lingering as a spectre within the confines of my mind. Isn’t it insane, how I’ve spent longer knowing you without seeing you around, than
being able to speak to you? Yes, maybe first loves will always hurt, and maybe you were mine. If this is my final farewell to you, then I hope you are
happy. I hope you find someone who will be nice to you, and I hope you, in turn, will learn to treat them well. There’s, too, the wish that you remain
coveted by the comfort of your computer screen. The world is easier to face when you’re oblivious to its cruelties, after all.
No, I do not love you anymore.

By: Divya Garg
You say you love me, but love is a fragile thing that you can never carry. It drips from your lips like wax from an unsanctified candle with no meaning. I
search for me the way your pupils constrict, only to find hesitation barricading the house of longing. Your eyes do not gleam when they meet mine,
and that’s enough to tell me what you can never do. It’s just you don’t love me the way I love you.
Grief was just behind me, his fingers calloused from undoing my braids, weaving every strand on my scalp with sorrow, stitching dirges into my skin
when all I longed for was your fingertips tracing the seams of my ruin. You never traced the cartography of my skin; you spat on it until the disgust
curling in your throat was more palpable than any touch you have ever graced me with. You don’t look up for me in a crowded room, like I do. You do
not crave for me the way I do.
You speak of choosing me over the world, yet when the hourglass tilts, I am the first grain to fall. You promise to give me the cosmos, but you are my
cosmos, and I—forever exiled in this mortal world—am sentenced to orbit, watching you burn while I wither in your periphery. Perhaps love was never
yours to give—only to speak of in prayers, only to wear like borrowed silk, never mine to begin with. And I was a fool who believed that the fabric
would not slip through my hands.
But don’t blame yourself, love. The gnaw I feel in my bones today has forever chewed on me until my legs tremble, and I weep in scarlet. I am not
made to be held by someone, I am a ghost in the rooms people title as home. Perhaps this curse is woven into the fabric of my being, and the cruel
hand has stitched me with rejection with silver needles, ensuring that every touch I crave will dissolve before it reaches me. You label me with
everything, and I keep myself on the shelf of nothing. I have offered my heart like a lamb for slaughter, only to watch lovers kneel and pray but never
stay. They drink from my hands, take whatever warmth is left inside me, and leave me empty—a well with no water, worthless like me.
Perhaps, I am cursed to be loved in halves. I am not built to be chosen; I am built to be mourned. And you—you—were only another pilgrim at my
shrine, leaving your offerings at my feet before walking away.


Author's bio
Divya is a 16-year-old writer who lives in India. For her, writing has always been an escape, through which she explores the intricacies of human emotions and tries to capture them in her writing, bringing them back to life. Her works are previously published in Haven Literary, Epiphany Anthology, The Milagros Literary, Writers Magazine, The Passionate Post, and many other literary magazines. Some anthologies that include her work are Chromatic Currents and Beautiful Chaos. She has been writing original poems since she developed a passion for writing. You can check out her other works on her Instagram handle @diaryofdivi