I find poems written by other poets, Sounding like the ones, I used to write once, And now I wonder, If that poet even exists, Because she would never write something like this, She would encrypt her feelings, In verses, She would send them to her muses, She would share it with the world, And this one, here, Has nothing to do with her, Or her muses. Her muses left, And then her words too. Apt last words for my book or this blog, haha.

I feel like the last tulip blooming while the whole field is harvested to be put in bouquets for their loved ones. I feel like the last balloon at the balloon seller, the one never got picked. The one about to deflate. I feel like the last piece of bread, untouched, unwanted, ignored.

Only the revival of my inner lover girl, Will stop the demise of this blog, Because I see the laboured breath, Of my imagination, Trying to thrust life into this dead space, And I don't think it wants to survive, A life that's so null and void of any love.

Sometimes, Despite showing up, Again and again, Isn't enough, But that doesn't mean, You're not trying, It only means, You've to let it happen, At its own pace, And you, Meanwhile, Can just show up, To welcome it, Whenever it arrives.

I want to be a soft, lover girl, But I'm forced to be an independent girl, So I curl my fingers in a punch, And stop myself from hitting people, To get the work done, Clenching and unclenching the hands, Until the anger seeps out, Who the hell thought it was okay, To make a pretty girl hangry?

When a spark meets fire, The fire grows, And when the fire meets a catalyst, It roars.

Once again, Life feels like a big, Work in Progress all over again, And I don't know, Where this will take me, Or how much it'll destroy me, All I know is, I cannot run away from it, Even though I want to.

I have been feeling like the side character lately, That character whose story is left incomplete, The one whose character doesn't build up only, The character that only stays in the background of others people's big scenes and plot twists, The character that fades out eventually, The character no one remembers after a while, The character who wasn't probably required in the first place. Useless, story less, plotless.

As this year, Slowly starts coming to the end, I'm wondering, And reminiscing, On all the small-big lessons, Life threw at me. Honestly, I don't even remember much of them. All of this makes me wonder, What part does this year play in my overall life? Because right now, It feels like a tiny speck of dust, Almost meaningless at the moment, But, this feels like the start of a wave, A big one. The one I hope doesn't take me down to drown.

No one had read my poems since last four days, Makes me think, Really think, For the first time in the history of this blog, Am I doing it for myself, Or for views? But what is art, If it's not seen, read, appreciated, critiqued, Is the artist, Still and artist then?

Jitni baar tumse mili nahin hu, Usse zyada baar aaj tumhe yaad kar liya hai, Ichikiyon ke liye, Maafi.

Thankful for everyone in love who didn't give up, Despite the distance, Doubts, And other challenges, Your hope fuels mine.