1. Betrayal
A word like a stone, dropped in the well.
The ripples spread and swell and swell.
They touch the edges of the skin,
and leave a cold, unwelcome dread within.
The sharp, quick pain, an arrow's sting,
is not the thing that makes it cling.
The word hangs in the air like smoke,
from a cold fire that never broke.
It settles on the skin, the hair,
a phantom weight you always wear.
It whispers from a familiar face,
and hollows out the once-safe place.
A door is slammed, though silent still,
it chills the air against your will.
It lingers not for what was done,
but for the trust that's now undone.
The lingering is not the past,
but all the futures built too fast.
It haunts because it changes sight,
making the daylight feel like night.
Every kind gesture, soft and low,
now holds the risk of a second blow.
The word is less the act itself,
than the new, fractured, and wary self.
So it lingers, a persistent ghost,
not as the one you lost the most,
but as the chilling, quiet truth,
that words can murder more than youth.
2. My haunted word is Still.
Not a whisper from a ghost, but the air after the last, loud noise has ceased.
The quiet that follows the storm, the breath held after a scream.
The silence that asserts a presence in its very absence.
It haunts me like the shadow of a ship
that has long since sailed out of sight.
It’s the echo of what has been,
a memory that will not accept its death.
It holds the promise of something more,
while cementing the finality of what's gone.
Still is the stillness of a life lived,
the unblinking eye of the past.
It’s a river frozen solid,
a melody that cannot be played.
The word is the cold hand of a future that never was,
an open window that offers no breeze.
And so it lingers, a single, sharp truth,
because the end was not an ending.
The end was merely still, a pause that holds everything
within its unforgiving pause.
It leaves all possibilities untouched,
unfulfilled, and yet stubbornly present.
It is the memory of love,
not a memory of its last touch, but of its last pause.
3. Hollow
It is a simple word, a well-worn sound,
Like footsteps on some lonely, wooden floor.
It is the space where meaning isn't found,
The echoed sigh behind a bolted door.
I hear it in the kitchen late at night,
When pots and pans are stacked and put away.
It is the silence that consumes the light,
The thing unsaid that gnaws upon the day.
I hear it in the questions left unasked,
The promises that fell from careless lips.
The careful role that every moment masked,
The final, chilling touch of fingertips.
It does not rage or burn with sudden heat,
No stinging word, no furious display.
Just a quiet whisper, slow and neat,
That carves the solid parts of me away.
It lingers because it's born of what is not.
Not what was done, but what was left undone.
The empty spaces in a tangled plot,
The finish line that neither of us won.
A vacant room where laughter used to dwell,
A hand withdrawn before it could connect.
A story where the final pages fell,
And left a ghost of what we could expect.
And so it haunts me, not with monstrous form,
But with a quiet, ever-present dread.
The chill that follows after every storm,
The phantom of a life that wasn't led.
4. My haunting word has four sharp letters, set in stone,
A quiet echo, barely breathed, yet fully known.
It isn't "hate," nor "loss," nor "grief's" despairing call,
It's just the simple, final sound of "nothing" at all.
It lingers not for what was done, but for what was not.
A silent seed in memory, a tiny, festering spot.
The words I choked upon, the kindness left unsaid,
The chances I let wither in my anxious, weary head.
It haunts me like the ghost of a potential life,
The peaceful home, the end of all the inward strife.
For every road not taken, every moment I withdrew,
The whisper follows, "It could all have been for you."
It does not rage or shout or bring the fear of pain,
Instead, it hums a chilling, lonely, soft refrain.
A gentle emptiness, a hollow in the chest,
The quiet, crushing knowledge that I failed the final test.
So while the hurtful words of others turn to dust,
This one remains, a monument to a broken trust.
Not trust betrayed by others, but my own failing hand,
The life I might have lived, a ghost within the land.
5. The Ghost of Maybe
My haunting word is maybe.
It whispers of roads not taken,
of futures that faded in the quiet space
between a question and a vow.
It is the ghost of possibility,
a shadow of what might have been,
haunting not with malice but
with the heavy grief of absence.
The word arrives on a sigh of wind,
a whisper where a storm should have been.
It holds the scent of rain on dry ground,
and the ache of a love that was not found.
Not cruel, not sharp, no vulgar sound,
just the softest tread on hallowed ground.
It is the ghost that lives in the hall,
in the silent space after the call.
The memory of a half-held hand,
before a choice became a command.
It offers a cup, then spills the wine,
a parallel life that could have been mine.
Maybe you would have seen my worth,
before I rooted in this tired earth.
Maybe I should have crossed that line,
rewriting the history, yours and mine.
This specter sits and watches me,
a silent, haunting eulogy.
It lingers because it has no end,
no final chapter, no book to lend.
A door unlatched, not shut or locked,
a clock that chimed but never clocked.
Maybe is the space between the breath,
a life not lived, a quiet death.
It is the un-moment, not gone or here,
suspended in the amber of a single year.
6. My ghost has a single, simple name,
a word that echoes on the stair.
No sudden cry, no brush of flame,
just a quiet rustle of the air.
Regret. It haunts the vacant space,
the things I didn't have the will to say.
The chance for kindness, lost without a trace,
the fragile truth I put away.
It settles in the quiet afternoon,
a shade of what could have been known.
It hums a sorrowful, muted tune,
about the seeds that were never sown.
It lingers not for what was done,
but for the silence I embraced.
The moments missed, the gentle sun,
leaving a bitter, phantom taste.
So why does it remain, a constant guest?
Because a word unspoken holds its breath.
It has no proper place to be at rest,
and finds its life within my death.
7. Ghost
A simple word, a wisp of breath,
But in its sound, a kind of death.
Not of the flesh, but of the chance,
To step from shadow, join the dance.
You linger still, an echo's hum,
The silent answer that won't come.
In crowded rooms and empty halls,
I feel the chill when your name calls.
You haunt the hallways of my brain,
A phantom of a past-tense pain.
You're not a deed I failed to do,
Nor love I offered, raw and true.
You are the absence of a plea,
The word you chose to not grant me.
You linger because you hold a key,
To the person I no longer need be.
You are the door I chose to close,
To keep the withered, not the rose.
You are the mirror in the gloom,
That reflects the choice that sealed my doom.
You linger as the promise lost,
The heavy, unforgiving cost.
And so, I carry you inside,
The place where silent feelings hide.
A single word, a whispered name,
A ghost still whispering my shame.
8. The word is wait.
It is a small ghost in the grand hallway of my mind,
not a screaming monster,
but a patient guest whose
quiet presence chills more than any shriek.
It is not the command,
but the duration that haunts.
The word itself has no weight,
no sharp edge of spite or sting of a lie.
It simply rests, an inert and mundane thing,
a moment's breath drawn and held high.
But strung to promises that bend and break,
it becomes a whisper in a barren room,
a shadow stretching from a silent ache,
a lingering specter of a coming doom.
It lingers because it marks every missed arrival,
the vacant chair, the clock’s unanswered turn.
It is the space between a hope and its denial,
the silence where a lesson ought to burn.
It’s the breath before the bitter news is given,
the glance held too long, the door that stays shut.
It is the question, asked but never driven
to its conclusion, leaving all to rust.
So I keep the watch, a ritual of despair,
for what was lost, and what has not yet come.
The word, so simple, hangs in the air,
a soft, relentless, echoing hum.
It is the mausoleum for the things I thought I knew,
the tombstone on a path that never ended.
And in its quiet prison, I am left to view
the ghost of what my future might have mended.
9. A shadow on the tongue
The word is wait, a small and silver blade.
It holds the promise, or perhaps the theft, of dawn.
Not shouted, but a soft and constant serenade,
for all the things that have already gone.
It lingers where the key turns in the lock,
and echoes back from every hollow space.
It holds the phantom hands upon the clock,
and keeps a hollowed look upon a face.
It is a silent film of what might be,
the echo of a future not yet heard.
A question mark on all of history,
and never a conclusive, final word.
This ghost of time is etched in empty chairs,
and whispers from the corners of a room.
I trace its lines through silent, answered prayers,
and in the patient flower of the gloom.
Why does it linger? It’s the unwritten line,
the letter sealed but never sent away.
It is the space between the touch and shine,
the yesterday that could not be today.
It is the answer that the tongue withheld,
the chance that flickered, then withdrew its heat.
A future promised, then forever felled:
the word that makes a victory incomplete.
10. Echo
The word is wait. A simple, brittle sound,
a fragile china cup upon the ground.
Not "patience," with its grace of folded hands,
but the tense stillness of divided lands.
It is a pause, a breath held in the lung,
the final, fading note of a song unsung.
It lingers not because of what it is,
but for the silence that its presence is.
It's not the word itself, but the expanse
of what stretched after it, an endless trance.
The empty space where promise used to be,
a hollow that defines the loss to me.
I hear it in the slam of a front door,
in footsteps fading on a wooden floor.
It echoes from a time before the end,
a last command from a departing friend.
It holds the ghost of every future lost,
and counts the bitter, unrecoverable cost.
This word is not a monster, sharp with dread,
but a soft, gray ash from a life un-led.
It’s not the villain, but the empty stage,
the turning of an unwritten page.
It’s the quiet ache of things left unbegun,
the shadow that remains when the sun has run.
So, wait it is. The whisper and the knell.
A single word that conjures all of hell.
And it will haunt me with its hollow grace,
until the silence finds another space.
11. My ghost is not a name, or a sigh in the dark,
but a single, cruel syllable, a lingering mark.
It was an axe-fall, a final decree,
the simple word: “Wait,” spoken to me.
It was not a question, not a gentle plea,
but the closing of a door, a key turned steadily.
A moment held hostage, a future in doubt,
the silence that follows, and the turning about.
And so it lingers, a chill in the air,
a promise of absence, a burden to bear.
It clings to the quiet, it hangs in the space,
the ghost of a pause on a familiar face.
It lingers because it was a sentence unfinished,
a chapter left blank, a hope diminished.
It holds the echo of all that could be,
a future unwritten, waiting for me.
My ghost is not a grand, rattling chain,
but a soft, steady whisper of endless refrain.
Just that simple word, that single, cold sound,
keeps me frozen, with my feet on the ground.
12. A ghost with no sheet
The word is a cold hand on my spine, an old whisper,
a mirror where my reflection is always dimmer.
It is a ghost with no sheet,
a shadow glued to my feet.
It has no shape, but I feel its weight,
a cold and pervasive feeling of brokenness.
It lingers because it was planted
It lingers because it was planted in a vulnerable garden,
a tiny, vulnerable me.
The critical parent, the judging peer,
the careless laugh, the quiet, mocking sneer.
Those moments became fertilizer for a seed
that grew into a noxious, suffocating weed.
It was never about what I did;
it was about who I am.
Guilt says, I did something wrong,
but shame whispers, I am wrong.
It's a voice that says, "You'll never be enough",
and makes sure you know it, even when you're rough
with yourself, punishing the memory,
trying to carve out the problem.
The silent cage
It lingers because I fed it, in secret.
A habit of hiding, a silent, locked retreat.
It thrives in the unspoken, the dark corners of the mind,
a captive that I alone can unbind.
It makes me pull away when others are near,
convinced they would turn and disappear
if they saw the tarnish, the fault in the grain,
the evidence that I am to blame.
The quiet revolution
But today, the shadow seems a little less dense.
My tired heart is pushing back, making sense
of the lie that it never deserved to feel whole.
A tremor, a crack, in the fortress of my soul.
The phantom is a story, not a truth,
a habit born in the raw aches of youth.
I am learning to name it, to hold its hand,
to walk past the mirror with a new command.
13. The shadow wears my skin and calls itself by name:
A whisper on the wind, the heavy word of shame.
It has no mouth or face, but its voice is a familiar sneer,
A cold, tight-fisted space, constructed of my fear.
It was planted like a seed in the soil of yesterday's hurt,
A small and sudden weed in the garden of my worth.
It grew with every silence, with every averted gaze,
Telling me my past was an intricate, haunted maze.
I wrapped it up in blankets, in a promise to conceal,
Believing that the secret was too terrible to reveal.
It lingers not because I was wrong,
but because I believed I was wrong.
It does not fade with time's forgiving song,
but strengthens with the lie that I don't belong.
It lingers because I hide it in the dark,
And in the silent dark, it builds its lonely ark.
It tells me that my error is not an event, but me,
A fundamental flaw, a twisted history.
But in the cracks of sunlight, a new thought takes its hold—
That shame can only live where the story is untold.
And I have started speaking, just a few words at a time,
Learning that to be human is not a perfect climb.
I see the word now, not as an anchor's heavy chain,
But as a broken mirror in a long, cleansing rain.
And the haunting is not the word itself, I now can clearly see,
But the silent, lonely echo of my own complicity.
14. The word is Shame
It sits upon the neck, a quiet, heavy stone.
It waits for every misstep, every faltering tone.
It carves a little prison from the chest and from the bone.
And whispers that the house you live in is not your own.
It is the memory of a careless, clumsy child,
A joke that fell and died, a confidence defiled.
It is the feeling when your truest self runs wild,
And finds a mirror that is cold and unreconciled.
It lingers because it was whispered first, not born.
It was an echo from a voice that was full of scorn.
It was a judgment, not for what was, but what would be torn
Away, if they should see the threadbare shape you'd worn.
So you put on a mask, a smile to hide the fray.
You build a wall and hope it holds the dark away.
But shame doesn't need the world to see and point and flay;
It only needs to know that you remember, and obey.
It stays because it thrives on secrecy and fear.
It makes a wound feel like a truth you can't hold dear.
It promises that if you just keep silent, it will clear,
But silence is the sustenance that makes it reappear.
It is a silent anchor in a stormy, lonely bay.
It is the constant, nagging feeling that you are not okay.
It lingers because it's easier to hide than to display,
The broken, haunted pieces that refuse to go away.
15. Denial.
In the bone-white chambers of the mind,
A single word, a hollow, haunts behind.
Not a sound of thunder or a fearful cry,
But a soft retreat, a whispered, certain lie.
Denial.
It wears a cloak of comfort, frayed and thin,
To keep the aching, unwanted truths from coming in.
It offers shelter in a house of dust,
From painful change, from sorrow, from mistrust.
It says, "The cup is full," though the bottom is bare,
And "I am fine," through gritted teeth and tears.
And so it lingers, a persistent ghost,
Because it promises what we want the most.
It's easier to tend the phantom limb
Than to feel the severance and face the dim
Reality that something we held dear
Is truly gone, and will not reappear.
It lingers for the peace that isn't real,
For the momentary quiet that we feel.
It keeps the door to hurt securely shut,
While outside, ruin gnaws and twists and cuts.
It's the fear of falling from a fragile height,
And the long-term suffering born of avoiding the light.
It haunts because the truth must be ignored,
To keep our brittle, fragile self-esteem restored.
We build a wall of wishes and of doubt,
So the broken pieces never tumble out.
And so we whisper it, like a magic prayer,
Believing still that what is gone is there.
16. The Word
A hollow cage, a whispered ghost,
Denial is the word that haunts me most.
Not spoken loud, but stitched inside,
Where fear and fragile comforts hide.
It isn't sharp, a blade or blow,
But a soft, slow, steady undertow.
It coats the facts in sugar glaze,
A fog to blur the painful haze.
I see the shoreline shrinking fast,
The mast is broken from the mast.
The sky is bruised, the waves are high,
But "nothing's wrong," I calmly sigh.
I chart my course toward yesterday,
And dream the storm will blow away.
I polish brass and mend the deck,
With failure's breath upon my neck.
The Lingering
It lingers because the truth is bright,
And casts a shadow I can't fight.
It lingers as a self-defense,
A flimsy, psychological fence.
It lingers in the quiet space,
Between the pain and my own face.
It is the anchor that holds me fast,
To a false and reassuring past.
I build a house of silent lies,
With every brick a new disguise.
And every morning, I wake to find
The blueprint for my peace of mind.
But the foundation starts to crack,
And lets the cold, sharp reality back.
The word stays near, a phantom limb,
A haunting chorus, a broken hymn.
Because facing truth would mean the end
Of the familiar hurt I pretend to mend.
17. Denial (II)
In the locked room of the heart, I pace and hide,
With the word that is my shadow, ever by my side.
It is the softest lie I tell, the kindest hand that holds,
A whispered fiction, spun from silken, fragile folds.
"Denial"—the velvet blanket, the drawn shade,
Protecting me from wounds that memory has made.
It lingers, a familiar, humming ghost,
Not because it’s true, but because I need it most.
It keeps the shattered pieces from my sight,
Fences off the abyss with walls of fading light.
To accept the full, stark shape of the loss,
Is to pay a price too heavy, to bear a bitter cross.
So, I tend to this sweet sickness, this chosen blindness,
I give it cushioned chairs and treat it with all kindness.
The silence where the truth should be, I decorate and fill,
With pleasant distractions, until my spirit is still.
It is a coward's peace, a haunted home,
A river I refuse to cross, forever destined to roam.
But late at night, the buzzing starts to rise,
A chorus of "if onlys," a question in my eyes.
The blanket feels too thin, the shade a flimsy screen,
And reality’s cold whisper cuts the quiet scene.
The word doesn't haunt because it's menacing or cruel;
It haunts because it’s holding me, and I’m its willing fool.
18. A lingering word
It is the word for what I almost was,
a ghost of a life, a phantom cause.
It is not harsh, or cruel, or dark with lies;
it is a whisper that can't be excised.
Not 'never,' not 'lost,' but something in between,
a quiet word for a half-forgotten scene.
It was a path I turned from, long ago,
a chance not taken, a seed I did not sow.
The word contains a promise, unfulfilled,
a different future, perfectly stilled.
It floats into the present, soft as breath,
and brings with it the ghost of a small death.
I hear it in the rhythm of the rain,
a soft suggestion of a different pain.
I see it in the face of a passing stranger,
a life lived in a world without danger.
It isn't blame, it isn't pure regret;
it's just a feeling that will never set.
It lingers because it has no sharp retort,
no angry memory, no bitter court.
It is the 'what if' made of fragile glass,
that shatters into silence as I pass.
It's just the sound of a different kind of 'we,'
the haunting echo of what might have been me.
19. A Word of Sand and Sky - Gaza (I)
The word is Gaza. Not a sound, but a scar,
etched on the air, where news reports are.
It haunts because it is not just a place,
but a testament to a world’s disgrace.
It is a child’s name, silenced in a flash,
a mother’s wail amidst the falling ash.
It is the image of a ravaged home,
a broken promise, etched on ancient stone.
A Word of Echoes and Ghosts
Gaza. The word holds the echo of the sea,
a lullaby of loss for you and me.
It lingers because its suffering is live-streamed,
a horror we watch while we have dreamed.
We see the rubble, but we do not feel,
the silent hunger, the wound that won’t heal.
We turn the page, we change the channel’s view,
but Gaza’s ghosts are not so easily through.
They cling to daylight, whispering of dread,
a requiem for the thousands uncounted dead.
20. A Word of Guilt and Shame - Gaza (II)
Gaza. A word that carries a burden of shame,
for every time we fail to speak its name.
It haunts because we hear its suffering's plea,
but turn away, to keep our conscience free.
It is a mirror reflecting what we lack,
the courage to act, the strength to push back.
It is a question we are forced to face:
How can we build a future on this place?
The word is gauze, the bandage that we tie,
over a wound, a truth, a painful lie.
A Word of Hope and Tomorrow
Gaza. The word is not all sorrow, pain, and dread,
but also the whispers of the unbowed dead.
It is a lesson taught to the world’s deaf ear,
that hope can bloom even when death is near.
It lingers because it promises a dawn,
a day when peace is not a distant, faint song.
And though the world has learned to look away,
the hope of Gaza will one day have its say.
It is the voice of the poet who writes despite,
the bombs, the darkness, and the endless night.
21. Palestine
The word "Palestine" haunts because it is a geographical name
and a word freighted with historical trauma,
competing narratives with the oppressor, and the pain of an ongoing conflict.
It carries the weight of a manipulated complex history,
the collective grief of a people,
and a sense of enduring dispossession.
The word lingers in my mind
because it has engulfed a central story of weaponized competing claims
to a sacred land and the tragic human consequences of that struggle.
to a sacred land and the tragic human consequences of that struggle.
A name, a map, a story torn and frayed,
Not just a sound, but history's bitter blade.
Palestine: the word, a ghost in the air,
A whispered wound, a burden to bear.
It holds the echoes of a thousand years,
Of empires marching and of exiles' tears.
A Roman insult, a Byzantine decree,
A holy land for all, and yet for no one, free.
It carries sand from ancient, conquered ground,
And rubble where a vibrant life was found.
It holds the salt of the Dead Sea's bitter brine,
And shattered dreams along a severed line.
The word insists on memory and plight,
A mother's wail in the long, Gaza night.
It is the child's face beneath the falling dust,
A broken hope, a question of deep trust.
It lingers because it has no simple truth,
No single story told from age to youth.
For some, a memory of a homeland lost,
For others, a claim born at a terrible cost.
It is the call for justice, sharp and clear,
And in that call, the deafening sound of fear.
A word that will not settle or stay small,
A haunted house, containing rooms for all.
22. Home.
The word that haunts is home.
It lingers not only because it's revered as this fixed place,
but also because it's never said aloud as an unfulfilled promise,
a fragile, shifting concept that means something different to everyone.
The haunting comes from a deep-seated desire for a place of belonging and safety,
a desire that is sometimes met with disappointment, loss, or violence.
The memory of a "home" that once was,
or the yearning for one that never existed,
is what makes the word ache with a sense of loss and longing.
The word that haunts is a four-letter ache,
A ghost in the throat, a whispered mistake.
It’s not for the house with the shuttered face,
But for the promise of a safe space.
Home. A cradle of warmth and familiar scent,
Where the broken self can be humbly mended.
Yet the word is a mirage, a cruel design,
For what was yours became no longer thine.
It lingers in hallways where echoes reside,
In rooms where happiness used to hide.
A map of memory, a faded chart,
Tracing the lines of a broken heart.
I hear it in rain that drums on the pane,
And see it in strangers who bear no pain.
It’s a language of longing, a bittersweet tune,
Sung to the ghosts beneath a cold moon.
The word haunts because it offers a hope,
A dream of a life with which you can cope.
And so I carry it, a phantom limb,
This weight of a word that grows ever dim.
23. Friend
The simple word, a bell-like, gentle chime,
"Friend," you said, to mark a place in time.
But now the sound is hollow, thin, and wrong,
A ghostly echo from a distant song.
It lingers on, a shadow in the light,
A pact once sworn that vanished in the night.
It haunts the spaces where your laughter was,
A silent footnote to a shattered cause.
That single word became a binding vow,
But meaning shifts and memories allow
A slow erosion, like a riverbed,
Leaving just the hollow form instead.
It lingers for the meaning it once held,
For all the futures that were once foretold.
For simple trust, now tangled up with doubt,
For all the times we should have worked things out.
The word itself is not the source of dread,
But rather all the heavy words unsaid.
It's just the tombstone for a love gone cold,
A story finished, even if not told.
24. My haunting word is almost.
It is a ghost of a different past,
the shadow of a story that never quite came to be.
It is the taste of a future
that brushed against the skin but never fully arrived.
It lingers because it is the echo of what could have been,
a quiet reminder of roads not taken and
choices that hesitated for just a moment too long.
the shadow of a story that never quite came to be.
It is the taste of a future
that brushed against the skin but never fully arrived.
It lingers because it is the echo of what could have been,
a quiet reminder of roads not taken and
choices that hesitated for just a moment too long.
The ghost who walks is almost,
a whisper in the hallway of my mind.
Not a loud, angry shout,
but the softest, most insidious kind.
It lingers like the scent of rain
after the sky has cleared and gone,
a memory of coolness on the pane,
but never the storm I called upon.
It haunts the library of my life's shelves,
in the pages of the stories left unread,
and whispers from the hidden selves
in the unmade plans inside my head.
This word is not the sting of "never,"
the definite slam of a final door,
but the sad, soft sigh of "if only ever,"
the quiet ache of wanting more.
It sits within the space between,
the nearly, almost, and the not-quite.
It's the film upon a forgotten scene,
a dimming, not a dousing, of the light.
And it lingers because it cannot die,
for it was never fully born.
Not a lie, but a kind of lie,
the promise of a coming morn
that never quite arrives.
25. Body
The word is body, a weight on the tongue, a whisper of a cage.
It is a word that should be simple,
a vessel, a house for the soul,
but it is a haunted house, built of old blood and broken vows.
The word lingers like a ghost in the hallway,
following with quiet, inoffensive steps.
A reminder of the skin you inhabit,
a map of failures written on the flesh.
It is the word for the ribs that are too wide,
the thighs that are not thin enough,
the soft parts you try to fold into submission.
It's an inventory of faults, a ledger of miseries.
The word lingers because the image has a thousand voices,
a cacophony of what you should be.
The word is a collection of everyone else's judgment,
a compilation of magazine covers and social media feeds.
The haunting is the echo of their disapproval,
the memory of a look or an offhand comment.
It is the voice inside that agrees with the critique,
that sees a disaster in the mirror.
The word lingers because the body is the past,
a vessel holding the memories of every fall and every bruise.
It holds the history of hunger and feast, of shame and triumph.
The word is an archaeologist digging through old hurts,
unearthing the scars from every time you didn't feel enough.
The word lingers because the war is not over.
You can find acceptance and moments of peace,
but the ghost remains, a pale shape in the corner of your eye.
The word reminds you of the pact you made long ago,
to berate and starve it, to wish it gone.
And though you try to make peace with the soft animal,
to call this house home,
the word "body" still has the power to remind you
of the person you were convinced you were not.
26. Breast
The word breast haunts me for its fractured meanings
which is a site of nurture, a symbol of beauty,
a political battleground, and a source of dread.
It lingers because it holds the weight of different,
often contradictory, human experiences.
It is a word of genesis and of ending, of comfort and of fear.
which is a site of nurture, a symbol of beauty,
a political battleground, and a source of dread.
It lingers because it holds the weight of different,
often contradictory, human experiences.
It is a word of genesis and of ending, of comfort and of fear.
In the ancient, poetic sense, a soft shore where the heart resides,
A mother's tender promise, milk and shelter personified.
But then the word is cut in two, a severance so stark,
A clinical procedure, a shadow in the dark.
It lingers for the thirteen-year-old, bewildered and ashamed,
Whose developing body is a secret to be tamed.
For the woman whose self-worth is buried in their form,
A graveyard built by standards, weathering every storm.
It haunts the new mother, with an ache so profound,
When the promised, easy flow is nowhere to be found.
When feeding time is pain, a learning curve of grief,
And social media judges every struggling, weak belief.
It is the word on a report, that cold, unblinking truth,
That silences the whispers of a carefree, distant youth.
The scar that follows surgery, a map of what was lost,
The heavy, final payment for a life-preserving cost.
It whispers in the quiet of a locker room or bed,
A constant, nagging worry, a voice inside the head.
It's the duality of purpose, the gift, the curse, the plight,
That makes this single syllable a constant, ghostly light.
It lingers because it is a home and also a facade,
A source of life, a place of death, a thing to be remade.
It holds all meanings, broken and whole, within its single frame,
A human story, ever-present, whispering your name.
27. Color or colour?
A prism shatters on the floor,
And all that's left is 'colour'.
That British shadow, that small war
Between an 'o' and silent 'u' that smothers,
A history in five letters, a ghost of a king's grammar.
A ghost in the alphabet, a quiet, lingering rule,
It sets the mind on edge, and sends the eye to school.
I see a field of poppies, a sky of brilliant hue,
And in my mind, the ghost of an editor is due.
The British spelling sits, a silent, stubborn guest,
Forgetting all the rules and grammar I attest.
Why does it linger, that ghost of a different past?
That small, imperial 'u,' too elegant to outcast.
It whispers of the inkwells, the quills, the proper way,
A phantom of the page that haunts me to this day.
For all the words I write, and all the lines I draw,
That small, forgotten 'u' breaks some unspoken law.
And yet it's beautiful, that tiny, soft regret,
Like an old memory I can't quite forget.
It paints a different world, a different shade of grace,
And puts a subtle shadow in its familiar place.
So let it haunt me, then, that gentle, awkward 'u',
A reminder that there's more than one way to be true.
28. The words we do not speak
linger as a haunting in our minds,
and like ghosts,
they use our own omissions and refusals against us.
An unspoken word continues to return,
bringing with it a tide of different colors.
It is not a word of thunder,
nor a curse hurled in a rage.
It is a small thing, folded under,
an un-turned and brittle page.
The word itself is a quiet gray,
the color of forgotten dust,
or a mist at the close of day
where shadows gather, without trust.
Yet, it returns in scarlet streaks,
the flash of what should have been said,
a hot flush across my cheeks
that burns like a truth left for dead.
It comes in bruised shades of deep violet,
like a wound that never quite heals,
a silent, unending regret
that in solitude it reveals.
It comes with the bitter taste of bile,
a venomous green of jealousy,
for all the lost smiles and worthwhile,
untold things, now just history.
It whispers in black, a silent dread,
a void where courage once could be,
for the promise that was left un-pled,
a phantom of what was meant for me.
This word, this quiet, unassuming thing,
is a specter in the mind's dark hall.
It returns, not on an angel's wing,
but as a sorrow, waiting for its fall.
It lingers not because it was strong,
but because it was held and contained,
and now, a ghost, it will belong,
to every color my heart has stained.
29. A whisper once, now a bellow, is the word that haunts me.
Not enough. Two syllables, a silent judgment that follows me into every room, every thought.
It isn’t a grand, shouted curse, but a quiet, persistent whisper that shrinks my soul.
It lingers like a phantom limb, a pain for a part of me that is no longer there. It was spoken by a loved one, whose words became the nails holding up a distorted mirror. The one meant to build me up, instead built this cage of two small words.
It lingers because it is a lie I agreed with.
I took the seed of that unkind remark and watered it with doubt. I nurtured it with my own anxiety and fear until it grew into a thorny vine that wraps around my chest. It reminds me that any success, any joy, can be taken away because of my inherent lack.
It is the final, unsaid part of every observation:
The praise for a job well done, followed by the quiet thought: but not enough.
The laugh shared with a friend, shadowed by the internal verdict: still not enough.
The quiet evening at home, a peace it threatens to shatter with its presence: you are not enough.
And so, it haunts me not from the past, but from the future.
It lies in wait, a predator in the tall grass, ready to pounce on any moment of peace. It is the fear that even my best, my most sincere effort, is an unfillable cup.
It lingers because it has become a part of me. I don't hear a voice from outside anymore; I hear my own. My own thoughts, my own fears, whispering that I will always, always be a little less than whole.
The word is a splinter, not just a sound.
A shard of glass pressed into the ground.
I walked across it, barefoot and blind,
And now it travels through my blood and mind.
It isn't a memory, a tale I was told,
But a hot coal clutched in my fist, growing cold.
It doesn't fade with the turning page,
It builds its own house, a prison, a cage.
Why does it linger? Because it was true.
Or rather, the world, for a moment, thought it was true.
And in that space between my skin and the air,
The belief took root that it placed me there.
It lingers because a voice, for a moment, agreed,
Sown into the soil, a hateful seed.
And now I must live in the shadow it casts,
Long after the moment of saying has passed.
It is the echo in the hallways of doubt,
The whisper that follows when I step out.
And though the voice is long since mute,
The name it gave me has taken root.
30.
It isn’t a grand, shouted curse, but a quiet, persistent whisper that shrinks my soul.
It lingers like a phantom limb, a pain for a part of me that is no longer there. It was spoken by a loved one, whose words became the nails holding up a distorted mirror. The one meant to build me up, instead built this cage of two small words.
It lingers because it is a lie I agreed with.
I took the seed of that unkind remark and watered it with doubt. I nurtured it with my own anxiety and fear until it grew into a thorny vine that wraps around my chest. It reminds me that any success, any joy, can be taken away because of my inherent lack.
It is the final, unsaid part of every observation:
The praise for a job well done, followed by the quiet thought: but not enough.
The laugh shared with a friend, shadowed by the internal verdict: still not enough.
The quiet evening at home, a peace it threatens to shatter with its presence: you are not enough.
And so, it haunts me not from the past, but from the future.
It lies in wait, a predator in the tall grass, ready to pounce on any moment of peace. It is the fear that even my best, my most sincere effort, is an unfillable cup.
It lingers because it has become a part of me. I don't hear a voice from outside anymore; I hear my own. My own thoughts, my own fears, whispering that I will always, always be a little less than whole.
The word is a splinter, not just a sound.
A shard of glass pressed into the ground.
I walked across it, barefoot and blind,
And now it travels through my blood and mind.
It isn't a memory, a tale I was told,
But a hot coal clutched in my fist, growing cold.
It doesn't fade with the turning page,
It builds its own house, a prison, a cage.
Why does it linger? Because it was true.
Or rather, the world, for a moment, thought it was true.
And in that space between my skin and the air,
The belief took root that it placed me there.
It lingers because a voice, for a moment, agreed,
Sown into the soil, a hateful seed.
And now I must live in the shadow it casts,
Long after the moment of saying has passed.
It is the echo in the hallways of doubt,
The whisper that follows when I step out.
And though the voice is long since mute,
The name it gave me has taken root.
30.
My name is not my own, but a room with many doors,
where echoes of another life seep in through the floors.
A word from my beginning, an accidental inheritance,
given with love, yet carrying a stranger's resonance.
It fits, but not perfectly; a shirt that's always slightly askew,
reminding me of the person I am and the one they thought they knew.
It lingers because a name is a story told by others.
A vessel filled by their hopes and fears, passed from mothers to mothers.
It holds the weight of their perceptions, and the shadow of their dreams,
a past life I must carry on the surface, or so it seems.
The echo is a memory I never lived, but cannot shed,
a phantom history attached to the words they’ve always said.
And so, the haunting isn’t sinister, but quiet and profound,
a persistent, gentle whisper in the background of every sound.
It is the self I've built against the self they first defined,
the subtle pull of destiny I never chose to find.
It lingers as the distance between the name they gave to me,
and the person I am still trying to become, and truly be.
31.
My ghost wears no sheet of white,
no rattling chain in the dead of night.
It does not wail, it does not moan,
but lives inside a word alone.
The word is "could have been."
It slips into the morning's light,
a shadow stretching from the night.
It finds me in the day's bright sound,
a silence on forbidden ground.
It whispers from a half-read book,
a stranger's half-forgotten look.
This whisper asks, with feigned unease,
What if you took the path with ease?
It questions choices I have made,
the risks I took, the price I paid.
It conjures ghosts of lives unlived,
of paths untrodden, gifts ungiven.
It paints the pictures of a dream,
a clearer, less-turbid stream.
It lingers for the simple fear,
that its phantom world was always near.
That in the balance of a choice,
I ignored a more essential voice.
Not for regret of what is lost,
but for the reckoning of a cost.
The word holds possibility,
a torment and a fantasy.
A secret door forever locked,
a promise that my spirit mocked.
I know the present for its truth,
but that ghost-word recalls my youth.
It's not a memory that decays;
it's a potential that forever stays.
32.
My haunting word has no edges, no corners,
It softens and swells, a tide that devours.
Its long, trailing vowels, like endless tomorrows,
Pull at the thread of all my waking hours.
It's a syllable stretched, a whisper sustained,
An infinite echo of a once-spoken vow.
It’s the ache in the bones of a heart that’s still pained,
And the "how" in the query of "where is it now?"
It lingers because it's a memory's ghost,
A promise it carried that vanished in haze.
It’s a word that once meant what I cherished the most,
But fell out of focus in life’s blinding maze.
The sound of it sits in the deep of my chest,
A phantom-limb ache for a feeling long gone.
Each time that I hear it, I fail every test,
Of believing the sunrise has brought a new dawn.
The letters themselves are a map of a time,
Before the distortion, before the great fear.
But the elongated breath, that slow, endless chime,
Is the sound of a truth that is no longer here.
It's a map to a place that you cannot reclaim,
A ghost of a feeling, a memory's breath.
And the length of the "oooo," just whispers your name,
Tethered to love and its subsequent death.
33. Gluttony of Guilt
The mind, a table set with gilded cloth,
A feast of memory, a morbid broth.
The word arrives, a heavy, endless plate,
"Gluttony" is served; I consume my own hate.
It's not of food, though food can be a guise.
It's of the self-devouring, hollow prize.
The word, a hunger, swallows every thought,
For every kind deed that I have not wrought.
A banquet piled with "if onlys" and "should have beens,"
I gorge on failures, my most secret sins.
The plates are broken fragments of the past,
The silver polished, but the shine can't last.
I'm overstuffed with all that's left undone,
The bitter taste of a forgotten sun.
I could have called. I could have paid a visit.
Instead, a thought, so weak, and so implicit,
"Tomorrow, maybe." And the debt grew more.
A phantom hunger, knocking at the door.
And so the gluttony of guilt, it clings,
Not as a burden, but a crown of things.
It makes a meal of every gentle grace,
Consuming happiness to fill the space.
It lingers because I refuse to fast,
Reliving moments that I want to last
In their raw hurt, their sharp, unvarnished form,
A constant, self-inflicted, righteous storm.
I wear the shame like sauce upon my chin,
A messy, public, yet a private, sin.
The word is not a whisper, but a shout;
It's all I taste when I am most devout.
And so I sit, with hunger in my soul,
And find the feast of guilt can make me whole,
In a strange way, a solace, and a lie,
To feel this full, while emptiness is nigh.
34. The Hum of Banality
The word is a gray, familiar hum,
the static drone of a life come undone.
Not in fire, or dramatic, shattering thunder,
but the slow, quiet rot that pulls a self under.
Banality. A polished stone on the shore,
a perfectly smooth, unremarkable floor.
It whispers, "This is it. This is all you are."
The absence of wound, the lack of a scar.
It lingers because it's not a sudden blow,
but the silent, persistent, creeping slow.
It’s the ritual of the morning’s first cup,
the same worn-out thoughts that pull the blind up.
It is the feeling of a life you forgot to live,
the sum of all the things you didn't give.
Each unread book, each half-written thought,
a future unmade with the present you've bought.
The "self" is a room with a single, small window,
where the same mundane sun and rain always show.
You try to rearrange the furniture, to change the view,
but the dust motes dance in the light you see through.
It’s the terror of finding nothing deep inside,
no secret cavern where strange and dark things hide.
Just a simple, clean, and empty space,
a mirror reflecting a perfectly ordinary face.
The word clings because it’s a failure without a name,
a quiet despair without a tragic claim.
It’s not grand like "melancholy" or fierce like "rage,"
just a flat, unending, uninspired page.
You're not a hero with a story to tell,
but a whisper in a crowd, living in your own cell.
And the word, like a guest who refuses to depart,
is the constant, dull thrumming at the edge of your heart.
35. The word is a ghost, a typo on the page,
A stuttered echo from a different age.
It carries no meaning, it bears no true weight,
Just a glitch in the language, a mark of pure fate.
Cott-ttt-tt, a tremor of ink on a screen,
A whisper of static, forever unseen.
A mis-fingered key on a document old,
A story of what could have been, left untold.
It clings to my mind, a sliver of glass,
A meaningless fragment that will not quite pass.
No meaning to grasp, no truth to unearth,
Just a space on the page of no conceivable worth.
But that is the reason it follows me still,
A silent reminder of a lack, and a chill.
The meaninglessness haunts me, a hollowed-out sound,
A void in the language, where no peace can be found.
It hangs in the air, a breath left unspent,
A silent ellipsis where the letter was bent.
And so the ghost lingers, this word without home,
The haunting I carry, wherever I roam.
36. Haunting Word
A four-letter word, a simple sound,
so often buried, then by shame unbound.
It lives in whispers, lurks in fear and pride,
and ghosts each hollow where it used to hide.
I feel it tremble in my skin and bones,
a silent weight among the spoken tones.
I hear it echo in the words unsaid,
the phantom presence in my sleeping head.
The body knows its language, raw and deep,
the broken promise that the heart must keep.
In every story, every clumsy quest,
it leaves a question burning in my chest.
A word of birth, a word of whispered sin,
the doorway out, and the place to enter in.
It's innocence, and hunger, all at once,
a prayer, a plea, a wild, unholy taunt.
It lingers not because it is unclean,
but for the ghosts of what we've never been.
It haunts for love, both lost and never found,
for all the silence growing from that sound.
37. Unsaid
The word is a ghost I never speak,
a syllable I refuse to seek.
It lives in the attic of my throat,
a whisper clinging to a mote.
It’s not for want of trying, mind you,
but the feeling that it would not be true.
It was spoken, but not by me,
by one who left abruptly.
A casual phrase, a quiet promise,
a wish for a future that is now amiss.
And when it died, that word became
the shadow that now knows my name.
I feel it when the clock strikes three,
and silence stretches out for me.
I see it in the yellowed light
that used to warm me in the night.
I hear it in the window's pane,
a soft, insistent, falling rain.
The haunting isn't in its sound,
but in the absence where it's found.
It lingers in the unlived days,
the unspoken ways.
It is the anchor of my ache,
a promise that I couldn't break.
And it won't leave because it holds
the story that will not be told.
It is the monument to a time
before the silence became sublime.
It stays because to let it go
would mean that I no longer know
the echo of the love we had,
the memory of good and bad.
So I keep it hidden, safe and deep,
a lonely secret that I keep.
And maybe that's the point of this,
to hold the word and all I miss.
A sacred wound I never touch,
a word that means a little too much.
38. “just a hand”
The word that haunts, a whisper now—
just a hand. They smoothed it over so,
like wrinkled silk or a child’s low brow.
Just a hand. The memory knows.
The room was dark, a silence deep,
and that hand moved in a knowing way,
across my chest, while I lay half-asleep.
Just a hand. There is no light of day.
It wasn’t a fist, it wasn’t a knife,
the words came later, dressed in a lie.
“Why can't you just move on with your life?”
Just a hand. And still the words apply.
They speak as though a hand is not a choice,
as though a hand could not betray.
But my body remembers, and my body has a voice,
and it screams what they still won't say.
They say just a hand, but a hand can crush,
a hand can hold, and a hand can steal.
They say just a hand, and I hear the hush,
of a truth too dark to make it real.
So I carry the lie, the minimizing sound,
the word that burrows like a worm.
Just a hand—but my body is still bound
to the memory of that quiet storm.
The hand is not a memory,
but a phantom ache, a whisper of a word.
That single word lingers because it holds the unsaid,
the unfinished business of a moment that stole your peace.
It is the key to a door I was forced through,
and the hand that haunts me is the fear that I never truly locked it behind me.
39. The word is wait.
It's an anchor, a root,
the soil beneath the garden,
the bone inside the foot.
I built my house on top of it,
then lost the deed, the map, the key.
It's why the hand that found me in the dark
still finds its way back, touching me.
The word is wait. A held breath.
A curtain pulled, and time forgot
to pass, or breathe, or count the cost.
I waited for the dark to pass,
for morning light to melt the glass,
and for the hand to become air.
But shadows lean, and time is slow,
and waiting taught me not to know
that some things that are done are done,
and can't be undone, or outrun.
The hand in dark is not a thing,
but a reminder, a constant sting.
It is the dread that knows my skin,
a second self, a wicked twin.
It touches where I cannot hide,
the silent places deep inside.
And so the word, it makes a home
where waiting is a silent tomb.
It's why the breath I'm holding tight
remains within the endless night.
The hand remembers what I've lost,
and whispers, "wait, I've paid the cost."
40.
where echoes of another life seep in through the floors.
A word from my beginning, an accidental inheritance,
given with love, yet carrying a stranger's resonance.
It fits, but not perfectly; a shirt that's always slightly askew,
reminding me of the person I am and the one they thought they knew.
It lingers because a name is a story told by others.
A vessel filled by their hopes and fears, passed from mothers to mothers.
It holds the weight of their perceptions, and the shadow of their dreams,
a past life I must carry on the surface, or so it seems.
The echo is a memory I never lived, but cannot shed,
a phantom history attached to the words they’ve always said.
And so, the haunting isn’t sinister, but quiet and profound,
a persistent, gentle whisper in the background of every sound.
It is the self I've built against the self they first defined,
the subtle pull of destiny I never chose to find.
It lingers as the distance between the name they gave to me,
and the person I am still trying to become, and truly be.
31.
My ghost wears no sheet of white,
no rattling chain in the dead of night.
It does not wail, it does not moan,
but lives inside a word alone.
The word is "could have been."
It slips into the morning's light,
a shadow stretching from the night.
It finds me in the day's bright sound,
a silence on forbidden ground.
It whispers from a half-read book,
a stranger's half-forgotten look.
This whisper asks, with feigned unease,
What if you took the path with ease?
It questions choices I have made,
the risks I took, the price I paid.
It conjures ghosts of lives unlived,
of paths untrodden, gifts ungiven.
It paints the pictures of a dream,
a clearer, less-turbid stream.
It lingers for the simple fear,
that its phantom world was always near.
That in the balance of a choice,
I ignored a more essential voice.
Not for regret of what is lost,
but for the reckoning of a cost.
The word holds possibility,
a torment and a fantasy.
A secret door forever locked,
a promise that my spirit mocked.
I know the present for its truth,
but that ghost-word recalls my youth.
It's not a memory that decays;
it's a potential that forever stays.
32.
My haunting word has no edges, no corners,
It softens and swells, a tide that devours.
Its long, trailing vowels, like endless tomorrows,
Pull at the thread of all my waking hours.
It's a syllable stretched, a whisper sustained,
An infinite echo of a once-spoken vow.
It’s the ache in the bones of a heart that’s still pained,
And the "how" in the query of "where is it now?"
It lingers because it's a memory's ghost,
A promise it carried that vanished in haze.
It’s a word that once meant what I cherished the most,
But fell out of focus in life’s blinding maze.
The sound of it sits in the deep of my chest,
A phantom-limb ache for a feeling long gone.
Each time that I hear it, I fail every test,
Of believing the sunrise has brought a new dawn.
The letters themselves are a map of a time,
Before the distortion, before the great fear.
But the elongated breath, that slow, endless chime,
Is the sound of a truth that is no longer here.
It's a map to a place that you cannot reclaim,
A ghost of a feeling, a memory's breath.
And the length of the "oooo," just whispers your name,
Tethered to love and its subsequent death.
33. Gluttony of Guilt
The mind, a table set with gilded cloth,
A feast of memory, a morbid broth.
The word arrives, a heavy, endless plate,
"Gluttony" is served; I consume my own hate.
It's not of food, though food can be a guise.
It's of the self-devouring, hollow prize.
The word, a hunger, swallows every thought,
For every kind deed that I have not wrought.
A banquet piled with "if onlys" and "should have beens,"
I gorge on failures, my most secret sins.
The plates are broken fragments of the past,
The silver polished, but the shine can't last.
I'm overstuffed with all that's left undone,
The bitter taste of a forgotten sun.
I could have called. I could have paid a visit.
Instead, a thought, so weak, and so implicit,
"Tomorrow, maybe." And the debt grew more.
A phantom hunger, knocking at the door.
And so the gluttony of guilt, it clings,
Not as a burden, but a crown of things.
It makes a meal of every gentle grace,
Consuming happiness to fill the space.
It lingers because I refuse to fast,
Reliving moments that I want to last
In their raw hurt, their sharp, unvarnished form,
A constant, self-inflicted, righteous storm.
I wear the shame like sauce upon my chin,
A messy, public, yet a private, sin.
The word is not a whisper, but a shout;
It's all I taste when I am most devout.
And so I sit, with hunger in my soul,
And find the feast of guilt can make me whole,
In a strange way, a solace, and a lie,
To feel this full, while emptiness is nigh.
34. The Hum of Banality
The word is a gray, familiar hum,
the static drone of a life come undone.
Not in fire, or dramatic, shattering thunder,
but the slow, quiet rot that pulls a self under.
Banality. A polished stone on the shore,
a perfectly smooth, unremarkable floor.
It whispers, "This is it. This is all you are."
The absence of wound, the lack of a scar.
It lingers because it's not a sudden blow,
but the silent, persistent, creeping slow.
It’s the ritual of the morning’s first cup,
the same worn-out thoughts that pull the blind up.
It is the feeling of a life you forgot to live,
the sum of all the things you didn't give.
Each unread book, each half-written thought,
a future unmade with the present you've bought.
The "self" is a room with a single, small window,
where the same mundane sun and rain always show.
You try to rearrange the furniture, to change the view,
but the dust motes dance in the light you see through.
It’s the terror of finding nothing deep inside,
no secret cavern where strange and dark things hide.
Just a simple, clean, and empty space,
a mirror reflecting a perfectly ordinary face.
The word clings because it’s a failure without a name,
a quiet despair without a tragic claim.
It’s not grand like "melancholy" or fierce like "rage,"
just a flat, unending, uninspired page.
You're not a hero with a story to tell,
but a whisper in a crowd, living in your own cell.
And the word, like a guest who refuses to depart,
is the constant, dull thrumming at the edge of your heart.
35. The word is a ghost, a typo on the page,
A stuttered echo from a different age.
It carries no meaning, it bears no true weight,
Just a glitch in the language, a mark of pure fate.
Cott-ttt-tt, a tremor of ink on a screen,
A whisper of static, forever unseen.
A mis-fingered key on a document old,
A story of what could have been, left untold.
It clings to my mind, a sliver of glass,
A meaningless fragment that will not quite pass.
No meaning to grasp, no truth to unearth,
Just a space on the page of no conceivable worth.
But that is the reason it follows me still,
A silent reminder of a lack, and a chill.
The meaninglessness haunts me, a hollowed-out sound,
A void in the language, where no peace can be found.
It hangs in the air, a breath left unspent,
A silent ellipsis where the letter was bent.
And so the ghost lingers, this word without home,
The haunting I carry, wherever I roam.
36. Haunting Word
A four-letter word, a simple sound,
so often buried, then by shame unbound.
It lives in whispers, lurks in fear and pride,
and ghosts each hollow where it used to hide.
I feel it tremble in my skin and bones,
a silent weight among the spoken tones.
I hear it echo in the words unsaid,
the phantom presence in my sleeping head.
The body knows its language, raw and deep,
the broken promise that the heart must keep.
In every story, every clumsy quest,
it leaves a question burning in my chest.
A word of birth, a word of whispered sin,
the doorway out, and the place to enter in.
It's innocence, and hunger, all at once,
a prayer, a plea, a wild, unholy taunt.
It lingers not because it is unclean,
but for the ghosts of what we've never been.
It haunts for love, both lost and never found,
for all the silence growing from that sound.
37. Unsaid
The word is a ghost I never speak,
a syllable I refuse to seek.
It lives in the attic of my throat,
a whisper clinging to a mote.
It’s not for want of trying, mind you,
but the feeling that it would not be true.
It was spoken, but not by me,
by one who left abruptly.
A casual phrase, a quiet promise,
a wish for a future that is now amiss.
And when it died, that word became
the shadow that now knows my name.
I feel it when the clock strikes three,
and silence stretches out for me.
I see it in the yellowed light
that used to warm me in the night.
I hear it in the window's pane,
a soft, insistent, falling rain.
The haunting isn't in its sound,
but in the absence where it's found.
It lingers in the unlived days,
the unspoken ways.
It is the anchor of my ache,
a promise that I couldn't break.
And it won't leave because it holds
the story that will not be told.
It is the monument to a time
before the silence became sublime.
It stays because to let it go
would mean that I no longer know
the echo of the love we had,
the memory of good and bad.
So I keep it hidden, safe and deep,
a lonely secret that I keep.
And maybe that's the point of this,
to hold the word and all I miss.
A sacred wound I never touch,
a word that means a little too much.
38. “just a hand”
The word that haunts, a whisper now—
just a hand. They smoothed it over so,
like wrinkled silk or a child’s low brow.
Just a hand. The memory knows.
The room was dark, a silence deep,
and that hand moved in a knowing way,
across my chest, while I lay half-asleep.
Just a hand. There is no light of day.
It wasn’t a fist, it wasn’t a knife,
the words came later, dressed in a lie.
“Why can't you just move on with your life?”
Just a hand. And still the words apply.
They speak as though a hand is not a choice,
as though a hand could not betray.
But my body remembers, and my body has a voice,
and it screams what they still won't say.
They say just a hand, but a hand can crush,
a hand can hold, and a hand can steal.
They say just a hand, and I hear the hush,
of a truth too dark to make it real.
So I carry the lie, the minimizing sound,
the word that burrows like a worm.
Just a hand—but my body is still bound
to the memory of that quiet storm.
The hand is not a memory,
but a phantom ache, a whisper of a word.
That single word lingers because it holds the unsaid,
the unfinished business of a moment that stole your peace.
It is the key to a door I was forced through,
and the hand that haunts me is the fear that I never truly locked it behind me.
39. The word is wait.
It's an anchor, a root,
the soil beneath the garden,
the bone inside the foot.
I built my house on top of it,
then lost the deed, the map, the key.
It's why the hand that found me in the dark
still finds its way back, touching me.
The word is wait. A held breath.
A curtain pulled, and time forgot
to pass, or breathe, or count the cost.
I waited for the dark to pass,
for morning light to melt the glass,
and for the hand to become air.
But shadows lean, and time is slow,
and waiting taught me not to know
that some things that are done are done,
and can't be undone, or outrun.
The hand in dark is not a thing,
but a reminder, a constant sting.
It is the dread that knows my skin,
a second self, a wicked twin.
It touches where I cannot hide,
the silent places deep inside.
And so the word, it makes a home
where waiting is a silent tomb.
It's why the breath I'm holding tight
remains within the endless night.
The hand remembers what I've lost,
and whispers, "wait, I've paid the cost."
40.
Not the dark, a velvet smother,
not the soundless creeping dread,
but one word, spoken low and thin,
rewrites the world inside my head.
The dark is generous with its shades;
it cloaks the known and hides the real.
A hand in dark is just a hand,
until that word makes it reveal.
That word becomes a branding iron,
a scar that sizzles on the air.
It changes how I hold my body,
a private shame that none can share.
It whispers from the kitchen sink,
and hums inside the coffee cup.
It makes me flinch when I'm alone,
the ghost that will not give me up.
It is not loud, this whispered sin,
no earthquake tremor, firestorm roar.
It is a small, insidious thing,
that rattles keys at every door.
The hand itself is just a ghost,
a phantom feeling on my skin.
But that one word, it lingers most,
the stranger that it lets right in.
It lingers because it was heard,
and in my hearing, I believed.
It is the name I gave to fear,
the bitter seed I have received.
And in that word, I lost my name,
a quiet death, a silent plea.
To be remade in someone’s shame,
a stranger living inside me.
41.
Not the word, but what it carries—
a hand in the dark on my body.
Not the letters formed from breath,
but the terror trapped inside.
It clings to its shape,
a scab that holds the wound together,
but never lets it heal.
The syllables sound like a key turning
in a lock I thought was secure.
The vowels are a gasp. The consonant
a choke. A whisper in a crowded room
can freeze the blood, a careless utterance
can bring the cold back in.
The word itself is a quiet house,
but inside, the furniture is shattered.
It lingers because I gave it a home.
I housed the shadow that came uninvited,
a guest that never leaves.
And now, every time it is spoken,
the dark hand is on me again.
42. The word is touch.
It lingers because it was never a greeting,
never an honest thing.
It came without sound, a theft in the dark,
a silent language printed on my skin.
It lingers because a hand in the dark on my body
was not a hand, but a ghost.
And ghosts do not knock.
They simply appear, leaving cold where there should be warmth.
It lingers because it stole the simple joy
of a brush against a sleeve,
a casual shoulder nudge from a friend.
It took the word touch and made it a trap,
a sharp intake of breath where there was once none.
A hand in the dark on my body wasn't a question,
but a statement, firm and undeniable.
And the word touch now echoes that finality,
stretching from my nerve endings to the edge of my memory,
a lingering chill I can’t outrun.
43. The words, like the phantom limb,
belong to the body, even when they’re gone.
A dark hand, a wordless terror,
a remembered touch, a whispered name, a cruel epithet.
These memories can become embodied and haunt me.
not the soundless creeping dread,
but one word, spoken low and thin,
rewrites the world inside my head.
The dark is generous with its shades;
it cloaks the known and hides the real.
A hand in dark is just a hand,
until that word makes it reveal.
That word becomes a branding iron,
a scar that sizzles on the air.
It changes how I hold my body,
a private shame that none can share.
It whispers from the kitchen sink,
and hums inside the coffee cup.
It makes me flinch when I'm alone,
the ghost that will not give me up.
It is not loud, this whispered sin,
no earthquake tremor, firestorm roar.
It is a small, insidious thing,
that rattles keys at every door.
The hand itself is just a ghost,
a phantom feeling on my skin.
But that one word, it lingers most,
the stranger that it lets right in.
It lingers because it was heard,
and in my hearing, I believed.
It is the name I gave to fear,
the bitter seed I have received.
And in that word, I lost my name,
a quiet death, a silent plea.
To be remade in someone’s shame,
a stranger living inside me.
41.
Not the word, but what it carries—
a hand in the dark on my body.
Not the letters formed from breath,
but the terror trapped inside.
It clings to its shape,
a scab that holds the wound together,
but never lets it heal.
The syllables sound like a key turning
in a lock I thought was secure.
The vowels are a gasp. The consonant
a choke. A whisper in a crowded room
can freeze the blood, a careless utterance
can bring the cold back in.
The word itself is a quiet house,
but inside, the furniture is shattered.
It lingers because I gave it a home.
I housed the shadow that came uninvited,
a guest that never leaves.
And now, every time it is spoken,
the dark hand is on me again.
42. The word is touch.
It lingers because it was never a greeting,
never an honest thing.
It came without sound, a theft in the dark,
a silent language printed on my skin.
It lingers because a hand in the dark on my body
was not a hand, but a ghost.
And ghosts do not knock.
They simply appear, leaving cold where there should be warmth.
It lingers because it stole the simple joy
of a brush against a sleeve,
a casual shoulder nudge from a friend.
It took the word touch and made it a trap,
a sharp intake of breath where there was once none.
A hand in the dark on my body wasn't a question,
but a statement, firm and undeniable.
And the word touch now echoes that finality,
stretching from my nerve endings to the edge of my memory,
a lingering chill I can’t outrun.
43. The words, like the phantom limb,
belong to the body, even when they’re gone.
A dark hand, a wordless terror,
a remembered touch, a whispered name, a cruel epithet.
These memories can become embodied and haunt me.
It is an exploration of that visceral, lingering pain,
where a word and a physical memory are inextricably linked.
The word is a splinter, black in my tongue,
a memory that splinters from the dark.
I trace its shape in the dust of the air,
and it blossoms a bruise upon my skin.
It’s not just a sound that hangs in the quiet,
not just a line of letters on a page.
The word is the hand that came unbidden,
the weight of it, the heat of its cage.
It lingers because it was spoken to me
and was answered with nothing, no sound, no escape.
My silence was a key that turned in the lock,
a quiet consent that sealed my fate.
The word is a ghost that holds my reflection,
a stain on the mirror, a truth denied.
The hand on my body, the word in my ear—
they merged in the dark, and I ran to hide.
Now, the hand is a shadow, the word is a ghost,
but the body remembers the shape of both.
And in the long nights, when the fear returns,
I feel its cold touch, its venom, its growth.
44. The Word
It isn't a scream, but a sigh in the quiet,
a single syllable, a ghost at my side.
Its meaning a weight, it fuels every riot
of thought in the night where my doubts come to hide.
It whispers of paths that I didn't pursue,
of promises broken and bonds come undone.
It clings to my spirit like morning's cold dew,
a darkness that follows the course of the sun.
It lingers because it is never complete,
a present that follows the past into view.
The echoes of chances I could not defeat,
the things I let go of, and could not hold true.
For loss is not final, but always a threat,
a shadow that teaches what I stand to lose.
It is every hope that has not been met,
and every mistake that I cannot refuse.
45. A name for the ghost
It came on a breath, a careless sound.
Four letters dropped upon the ground.
It wasn't a curse, or a furious yell,
but quiet, and cold, and sharp as a shell.
And it made a home deep in the bone,
this word that branded me, now full grown.
L-O-S-E-R. It doesn't fade.
The ghost of every move I've made.
It lingers because of the quiet ways.
It whispers when I count my days.
I build and I strive, and I think I'm free,
then a small defeat unlocks the key.
I miss a turn or I fail a test,
and the ghost is back, a spectral guest.
"I'm a loser," it says, and I hear my own tone.
My voice, the one I mistook for my own.
The word was never the whole of me.
But it made a frame, you see.
A tilted picture, with crooked sight,
that filters all my wrong and right.
It lingers because I gave it a seat,
and offered my deepest, most bitter defeat.
A tiny splinter, a small, dark seed,
planted in the fertile soil of need.
So I sweep the floor and I turn the light,
and pretend it isn't here in the night.
But it settles on every single chair,
a chill in the corner, a wisp of air.
It doesn't scream, or rattle chains,
it just sits and watches, and it remains.
And in the quiet, the most frightening part,
it sometimes feels just like my own heart.
46. The quietest of all words,
it doesn't shout or raise its voice.
It simply slips in unnoticed,
the absence of another's noise.
No crashing cymbal or thunder's crack,
just a steady hum that fills the space.
The silence of a deserted room,
a hollow echo in this place.
It lingers not for what it is,
but for the memory of what's not.
It is the outline of a touch,
a missing piece in a familiar plot.
It haunts because it holds the ghost
of every smile you used to chase,
the phantom warmth of hands you held,
now gone without a single trace.
The word itself is not the pain,
but rather the vessel for the ache.
A single, simple, honest truth,
a bargain you can never break.
It settles deep within the bones,
a silent, ever-present weight.
The word is just the final key
that locks you in, and seals your fate.
47. The single word, stretched into a whisper,
is not a ghost that moans and sighs.
It is a quiet guest who has no key,
a stranger sitting here behind my eyes.
The room is full of noise, of light, of cheer,
and yet the sound of one hand clapping rings.
I feel its cold, a blanket woven thin,
a truth so small, it has no need for strings.
It lingers because it's not a memory,
a scar from wounds that time has overgrown.
It's just the steady hum of what still is,
the constant knowledge that I'm all alone.
The word is lonely, but the feeling's worse,
a quiet echo in a crowded street.
The hollow space that laughs cannot fill up,
the silent rhythm of two absent feet.
It isn't born from loss, but from a lack,
a portrait waiting for its final hue.
And so it sits and waits, this little word,
for someone else to prove it isn't true.
48. word of the day
The word is a splinter, black in my tongue,
a memory that splinters from the dark.
I trace its shape in the dust of the air,
and it blossoms a bruise upon my skin.
It’s not just a sound that hangs in the quiet,
not just a line of letters on a page.
The word is the hand that came unbidden,
the weight of it, the heat of its cage.
It lingers because it was spoken to me
and was answered with nothing, no sound, no escape.
My silence was a key that turned in the lock,
a quiet consent that sealed my fate.
The word is a ghost that holds my reflection,
a stain on the mirror, a truth denied.
The hand on my body, the word in my ear—
they merged in the dark, and I ran to hide.
Now, the hand is a shadow, the word is a ghost,
but the body remembers the shape of both.
And in the long nights, when the fear returns,
I feel its cold touch, its venom, its growth.
44. The Word
It isn't a scream, but a sigh in the quiet,
a single syllable, a ghost at my side.
Its meaning a weight, it fuels every riot
of thought in the night where my doubts come to hide.
It whispers of paths that I didn't pursue,
of promises broken and bonds come undone.
It clings to my spirit like morning's cold dew,
a darkness that follows the course of the sun.
It lingers because it is never complete,
a present that follows the past into view.
The echoes of chances I could not defeat,
the things I let go of, and could not hold true.
For loss is not final, but always a threat,
a shadow that teaches what I stand to lose.
It is every hope that has not been met,
and every mistake that I cannot refuse.
45. A name for the ghost
It came on a breath, a careless sound.
Four letters dropped upon the ground.
It wasn't a curse, or a furious yell,
but quiet, and cold, and sharp as a shell.
And it made a home deep in the bone,
this word that branded me, now full grown.
L-O-S-E-R. It doesn't fade.
The ghost of every move I've made.
It lingers because of the quiet ways.
It whispers when I count my days.
I build and I strive, and I think I'm free,
then a small defeat unlocks the key.
I miss a turn or I fail a test,
and the ghost is back, a spectral guest.
"I'm a loser," it says, and I hear my own tone.
My voice, the one I mistook for my own.
The word was never the whole of me.
But it made a frame, you see.
A tilted picture, with crooked sight,
that filters all my wrong and right.
It lingers because I gave it a seat,
and offered my deepest, most bitter defeat.
A tiny splinter, a small, dark seed,
planted in the fertile soil of need.
So I sweep the floor and I turn the light,
and pretend it isn't here in the night.
But it settles on every single chair,
a chill in the corner, a wisp of air.
It doesn't scream, or rattle chains,
it just sits and watches, and it remains.
And in the quiet, the most frightening part,
it sometimes feels just like my own heart.
46. The quietest of all words,
it doesn't shout or raise its voice.
It simply slips in unnoticed,
the absence of another's noise.
No crashing cymbal or thunder's crack,
just a steady hum that fills the space.
The silence of a deserted room,
a hollow echo in this place.
It lingers not for what it is,
but for the memory of what's not.
It is the outline of a touch,
a missing piece in a familiar plot.
It haunts because it holds the ghost
of every smile you used to chase,
the phantom warmth of hands you held,
now gone without a single trace.
The word itself is not the pain,
but rather the vessel for the ache.
A single, simple, honest truth,
a bargain you can never break.
It settles deep within the bones,
a silent, ever-present weight.
The word is just the final key
that locks you in, and seals your fate.
47. The single word, stretched into a whisper,
is not a ghost that moans and sighs.
It is a quiet guest who has no key,
a stranger sitting here behind my eyes.
The room is full of noise, of light, of cheer,
and yet the sound of one hand clapping rings.
I feel its cold, a blanket woven thin,
a truth so small, it has no need for strings.
It lingers because it's not a memory,
a scar from wounds that time has overgrown.
It's just the steady hum of what still is,
the constant knowledge that I'm all alone.
The word is lonely, but the feeling's worse,
a quiet echo in a crowded street.
The hollow space that laughs cannot fill up,
the silent rhythm of two absent feet.
It isn't born from loss, but from a lack,
a portrait waiting for its final hue.
And so it sits and waits, this little word,
for someone else to prove it isn't true.
48. word of the day
The word “tomorrow” haunts me,
because it symbolizes a future that never comes
and a past that can never be forgotten.
This word is always waiting for the time
that never comes and reminding us
of the moment that never lasts.
That yesterday, which was said yesterday also,
Still waiting today,
It never comes, it never comes.
It's an illusion, it's a dream,
Which has no meaning.
That today, which never was,
Lost in the shadows of yesterday,
It's a ghostly dream,
Which has no end.
The tomorrow that never was,
Lost in search of tomorrow,
There is an unknown path,
Which doesn't go anywhere.
This word, tomorrow, is such a word,
That never comes, never comes,
Which has no meaning.
It's an illusion, it's a dream,
Which has no end.
This word, tomorrow, is such a word,
That never comes, never comes,
Which has no meaning.
It's an illusion, it's a dream,
Which has no end.
49. Perhaps
The word that haunts me is a gentle knife,
a quiet, wistful, three-syllable lie.
It is not hate, nor is it strife,
but the soft ghost of a different sky.
Perhaps. A phantom ship upon the sea,
a distant signal that I missed the turn.
The promise of a thing that was to be,
a lesson that I still have yet to learn.
Perhaps we were two rivers meant to meet,
but veered apart in some forgotten mist.
Perhaps my timing was a half-beat sweet,
a door I should have opened with a twist.
It lingers not because of what was said,
but for the silence where it used to be.
It haunts me like an unmade, restless bed,
the ghost of a forgotten, hopeful key.
It isn't sharp like "never," or unkind,
not brutal like a final, cold farewell.
It's just the road I left somewhere behind,
and the story I am scared to tell.
It lingers because it offers no release,
no bitter ending, no clear, final line.
It's the whisper of a stolen peace,
a hypothetical and might-have-been design.
50. The word is "should."
It whispers from the cupboard,
a ghost among the plates,
a silent judgment on the tasks
I've left to different fates.
It hangs upon the clothesline,
clinging to the breeze,
a faded phantom of the chores
that brought my mind to its knees.
It hides within the pages
of an unread, ancient book,
a silent accusation in its spine
for every stolen, hurried look.
Why does it linger, this soft sound?
A specter in my ear?
Because it marks the distance
between desire and my fear.
It is the fence between the self
I long to be and see,
and the clumsy, fragile, honest shape
that struggles to be me.
It’s the graveyard of decisions,
the map of roads not walked,
and every time I hear it,
I am haunted by what's talked—
The ghost of every perfect plan,
the shadow of my vow,
The person I was meant to be,
standing here, and now.
51. "Stuck."
The word hangs heavy, a stone in the throat,
a splinter lodged in the mind's dark moat.
Not a new phrase, not a new kind of hell,
but a cage of syllables where my thoughts dwell.
It's the rust on the hinge, the key that won't turn,
the unread page in the book I can't burn.
It's the phantom limb feeling, the ghost of a track,
a forgotten memory I can't conjure back.
It lingers because of the absence it holds,
a future unwritten in stories untold.
For all the ways out, a dozen escape routes,
"stuck" is the one word that always recruits.
It isn't a state, it's a constant refrain,
a record skipping, repeating the pain.
It echoes the silence where answers should be,
the gap in the puzzle, the missing "what if".
I can run, I can fight, I can rage at the wall,
but the word is a hook that still answers the call.
It's a mirror of moments, where progress is dead,
and that's why the word keeps on living instead.
52. The whisper starts, a quiet, two-syllable rhyme,
Rot in cot, it comes to me each time.
A nursery song, but twisted, grim, and low,
A lullaby of what you never know.
It clings, not to a memory, but a fear,
The silent, unseen danger drawing near.
It speaks of life, so fresh and newly formed,
Then of the ruin by which it's stormed.
It is the end before the start is done,
The setting of a never-risen sun.
It lingers for the things I cannot save,
The potential lost that lies beyond the grave.
It is the stain of sadness on a cloth so clean,
The ugly, brutal, and unseen.
It is the suddenness, the cold and certain sting,
The fragile moment that death's shadow brings.
So rot in cot, the phrase repeats and haunts,
A cruel reminder of a life that taunts.
The small and helpless, taken from their place,
An empty canvas with a hollow space.
It is a word that holds a future, dark and deep,
A promise broken while the young one sleeps.
53. Run
because it symbolizes a future that never comes
and a past that can never be forgotten.
This word is always waiting for the time
that never comes and reminding us
of the moment that never lasts.
That yesterday, which was said yesterday also,
Still waiting today,
It never comes, it never comes.
It's an illusion, it's a dream,
Which has no meaning.
That today, which never was,
Lost in the shadows of yesterday,
It's a ghostly dream,
Which has no end.
The tomorrow that never was,
Lost in search of tomorrow,
There is an unknown path,
Which doesn't go anywhere.
This word, tomorrow, is such a word,
That never comes, never comes,
Which has no meaning.
It's an illusion, it's a dream,
Which has no end.
This word, tomorrow, is such a word,
That never comes, never comes,
Which has no meaning.
It's an illusion, it's a dream,
Which has no end.
49. Perhaps
The word that haunts me is a gentle knife,
a quiet, wistful, three-syllable lie.
It is not hate, nor is it strife,
but the soft ghost of a different sky.
Perhaps. A phantom ship upon the sea,
a distant signal that I missed the turn.
The promise of a thing that was to be,
a lesson that I still have yet to learn.
Perhaps we were two rivers meant to meet,
but veered apart in some forgotten mist.
Perhaps my timing was a half-beat sweet,
a door I should have opened with a twist.
It lingers not because of what was said,
but for the silence where it used to be.
It haunts me like an unmade, restless bed,
the ghost of a forgotten, hopeful key.
It isn't sharp like "never," or unkind,
not brutal like a final, cold farewell.
It's just the road I left somewhere behind,
and the story I am scared to tell.
It lingers because it offers no release,
no bitter ending, no clear, final line.
It's the whisper of a stolen peace,
a hypothetical and might-have-been design.
50. The word is "should."
It whispers from the cupboard,
a ghost among the plates,
a silent judgment on the tasks
I've left to different fates.
It hangs upon the clothesline,
clinging to the breeze,
a faded phantom of the chores
that brought my mind to its knees.
It hides within the pages
of an unread, ancient book,
a silent accusation in its spine
for every stolen, hurried look.
Why does it linger, this soft sound?
A specter in my ear?
Because it marks the distance
between desire and my fear.
It is the fence between the self
I long to be and see,
and the clumsy, fragile, honest shape
that struggles to be me.
It’s the graveyard of decisions,
the map of roads not walked,
and every time I hear it,
I am haunted by what's talked—
The ghost of every perfect plan,
the shadow of my vow,
The person I was meant to be,
standing here, and now.
51. "Stuck."
The word hangs heavy, a stone in the throat,
a splinter lodged in the mind's dark moat.
Not a new phrase, not a new kind of hell,
but a cage of syllables where my thoughts dwell.
It's the rust on the hinge, the key that won't turn,
the unread page in the book I can't burn.
It's the phantom limb feeling, the ghost of a track,
a forgotten memory I can't conjure back.
It lingers because of the absence it holds,
a future unwritten in stories untold.
For all the ways out, a dozen escape routes,
"stuck" is the one word that always recruits.
It isn't a state, it's a constant refrain,
a record skipping, repeating the pain.
It echoes the silence where answers should be,
the gap in the puzzle, the missing "what if".
I can run, I can fight, I can rage at the wall,
but the word is a hook that still answers the call.
It's a mirror of moments, where progress is dead,
and that's why the word keeps on living instead.
52. The whisper starts, a quiet, two-syllable rhyme,
Rot in cot, it comes to me each time.
A nursery song, but twisted, grim, and low,
A lullaby of what you never know.
It clings, not to a memory, but a fear,
The silent, unseen danger drawing near.
It speaks of life, so fresh and newly formed,
Then of the ruin by which it's stormed.
It is the end before the start is done,
The setting of a never-risen sun.
It lingers for the things I cannot save,
The potential lost that lies beyond the grave.
It is the stain of sadness on a cloth so clean,
The ugly, brutal, and unseen.
It is the suddenness, the cold and certain sting,
The fragile moment that death's shadow brings.
So rot in cot, the phrase repeats and haunts,
A cruel reminder of a life that taunts.
The small and helpless, taken from their place,
An empty canvas with a hollow space.
It is a word that holds a future, dark and deep,
A promise broken while the young one sleeps.
53. Run
The monosyllabic ghost,
the word of haste: "run.".
It haunts because it contains
both desperate flight and the freedom that follows.
It holds the memory of every frantic escape
and every panicked thought,
yet also the sweet potential of moving towards something better.
The word lingers because its meaning is never settled;
it changes with each beat of the heart.
The simple ghost, a three-letter command,
taps at my mind with an insistent hand.
"Run," it whispers, a desperate, hollow sound,
Echoing through the quiet, hallowed ground.
It lingers not for what it is,
but for the things I couldn't face.
Every unfinished conversation's hiss,
every future I was too afraid to chase.
It is the memory of a slammed door,
a path abandoned, a forgotten plan.
Yet the same ghost can be a beckoning plea,
to flee the confines of what used to be.
It holds the promise of the open road,
the lightness of a long-abandoned load.
It's the quickened step to meet the sun,
The beating heart of a race well run.
This word haunts me, a contradiction deep,
the secrets that I'm trying hard to keep.
For every frantic sprint away from pain,
it also hints at what a soul can gain.
It is the word for freedom, bright and bold,
but also the one that says you must not be controlled.
54. The ghost of a word has moved in.
It does not say a name, but makes me feel ashamed.
A sudden, whispered syllable
that rearranges every choice I’ve made.
A tiny, razor-sharp pebble
that lodges in my shoe—a pain delayed.
It's not a shout, but a small, insistent thing,
a parasite of sound that digs beneath the skin.
It borrows from a cruel and careless spring
and settles down to grow its rot within.
It lingers because it's a narrative,
a story written with a single, damning word.
It rewrites every happy memory I live
until all I am is what I've overheard.
The echo of a moment I mistook
as fleeting, inconsequential, and unkind.
But it has built a home in every look,
and now, it is the home inside my mind.
When will I leave? When will this renter go?
I try to ignore the noise behind the walls.
I try to busy myself, but the echo grows,
a shadow following my restless calls.
Perhaps the only way to make it leave
is not to build a cage or lock a door.
But to build a new life, and truly believe
the word no longer lives here anymore.
55. Silence.
A word that carries an ache,
a hollow where my breath should take.
It's not the soft, hushed quiet,
but a cold, expectant riot.
It's the space left between,
the pause in a fractured scene.
It's the answer never given,
a future unwritten, un-forgiven.
It lingers like the cold in a hollow house,
the settling dust on what is lost.
Not a gentle, welcome hush,
but the sharp end of a loving rush.
It's the echo after slamming doors,
the quiet that follows whispered wars.
A phantom scent of what was meant,
and all the wasted time I spent.
It stays because the noise was mine,
the silence is a self-imposed design.
My voice, a boat against a tide,
could not compete with where you hide.
The unspoken things, the words unsaid,
are a weight of stone inside my head.
The word is less a sound, and more a feeling,
a wound that's slow, so slow to healing.
When will I leave this room of quiet air?
This house built on a whispered prayer?
When will my own voice fill the space,
and banish every haunted trace?
When will the door swing open wide,
and let the fresh air flood inside?
The silence is a cage, a key turned inward,
I am the only one holding the word.
56. The words "coward" and "rebel" are
two sides of the same coin,
with one defined by its failure to act
and the other by its defiant action.
The internal conflict between the two,
as they exist in a dynamic tension within a single body.
The words that haunt me
The coward keeps his tongue,
a quiet, knotted string,
while the rebel’s anthem is unsung,
a lonely, silent thing.
One watches as the world turns ill,
the slow decay of right,
and clenches hands with fragile will,
to hide within the night.
The other sees the coming storm,
and feels the ancient call,
to rise against a bitter norm,
before the final fall.
The coward fears the stinging pain,
the ridicule, the cost,
and lets the hope of justice wane,
until the fight is lost.
The rebel craves the righteous scar,
the mark that sets him free,
from what he knows they truly are,
and what they’ll never be.
And yet, the words don’t stand apart,
they’re braided in the soul;
the rebel hides a fearful heart,
the coward wants to be whole.
The lingering truth, a bitter prize,
is not a chosen state,
but a reflection in the eyes,
of all we choose to hate.
So they both haunt me in the dark,
a whisper and a roar,
each leaving its eternal mark,
on my unsteady shore.
One for the moment left behind,
the other for the deed.
The truth is, both are intertwined,
in every human need.
57. My name is the word,
A ghost in the alphabet's frame.
It's an echo, a question, a half-erased chalk line.
It is the self, a column that bends to the weather.
I trace its letters in the dust of old mirrors,
Where the face shifts with each passing year.
Am I the child whose parents called her "star"?
Or the stranger the world has come to prefer?
It lingers because it's the anchor and the current,
The home I run toward and the place I've burned.
I cannot own it, not like a pocketknife,
It owns me, a truth that's both bitter and bright.
It asks, "Who are you now, stripped bare of all stories?"
It is the vast, the eternal, the terrifying abyss.
It is the silence in which my true voice could arise,
Or the echo of all the selves I've had to despise.
The word hangs like a shadow, long and thin,
A reminder of the person I might have been.
It haunts with the promise of being whole,
But forever remains a puzzle, a riddle, a soul.
58.
It haunts because it contains
both desperate flight and the freedom that follows.
It holds the memory of every frantic escape
and every panicked thought,
yet also the sweet potential of moving towards something better.
The word lingers because its meaning is never settled;
it changes with each beat of the heart.
The simple ghost, a three-letter command,
taps at my mind with an insistent hand.
"Run," it whispers, a desperate, hollow sound,
Echoing through the quiet, hallowed ground.
It lingers not for what it is,
but for the things I couldn't face.
Every unfinished conversation's hiss,
every future I was too afraid to chase.
It is the memory of a slammed door,
a path abandoned, a forgotten plan.
Yet the same ghost can be a beckoning plea,
to flee the confines of what used to be.
It holds the promise of the open road,
the lightness of a long-abandoned load.
It's the quickened step to meet the sun,
The beating heart of a race well run.
This word haunts me, a contradiction deep,
the secrets that I'm trying hard to keep.
For every frantic sprint away from pain,
it also hints at what a soul can gain.
It is the word for freedom, bright and bold,
but also the one that says you must not be controlled.
54. The ghost of a word has moved in.
It does not say a name, but makes me feel ashamed.
A sudden, whispered syllable
that rearranges every choice I’ve made.
A tiny, razor-sharp pebble
that lodges in my shoe—a pain delayed.
It's not a shout, but a small, insistent thing,
a parasite of sound that digs beneath the skin.
It borrows from a cruel and careless spring
and settles down to grow its rot within.
It lingers because it's a narrative,
a story written with a single, damning word.
It rewrites every happy memory I live
until all I am is what I've overheard.
The echo of a moment I mistook
as fleeting, inconsequential, and unkind.
But it has built a home in every look,
and now, it is the home inside my mind.
When will I leave? When will this renter go?
I try to ignore the noise behind the walls.
I try to busy myself, but the echo grows,
a shadow following my restless calls.
Perhaps the only way to make it leave
is not to build a cage or lock a door.
But to build a new life, and truly believe
the word no longer lives here anymore.
55. Silence.
A word that carries an ache,
a hollow where my breath should take.
It's not the soft, hushed quiet,
but a cold, expectant riot.
It's the space left between,
the pause in a fractured scene.
It's the answer never given,
a future unwritten, un-forgiven.
It lingers like the cold in a hollow house,
the settling dust on what is lost.
Not a gentle, welcome hush,
but the sharp end of a loving rush.
It's the echo after slamming doors,
the quiet that follows whispered wars.
A phantom scent of what was meant,
and all the wasted time I spent.
It stays because the noise was mine,
the silence is a self-imposed design.
My voice, a boat against a tide,
could not compete with where you hide.
The unspoken things, the words unsaid,
are a weight of stone inside my head.
The word is less a sound, and more a feeling,
a wound that's slow, so slow to healing.
When will I leave this room of quiet air?
This house built on a whispered prayer?
When will my own voice fill the space,
and banish every haunted trace?
When will the door swing open wide,
and let the fresh air flood inside?
The silence is a cage, a key turned inward,
I am the only one holding the word.
56. The words "coward" and "rebel" are
two sides of the same coin,
with one defined by its failure to act
and the other by its defiant action.
The internal conflict between the two,
as they exist in a dynamic tension within a single body.
The words that haunt me
The coward keeps his tongue,
a quiet, knotted string,
while the rebel’s anthem is unsung,
a lonely, silent thing.
One watches as the world turns ill,
the slow decay of right,
and clenches hands with fragile will,
to hide within the night.
The other sees the coming storm,
and feels the ancient call,
to rise against a bitter norm,
before the final fall.
The coward fears the stinging pain,
the ridicule, the cost,
and lets the hope of justice wane,
until the fight is lost.
The rebel craves the righteous scar,
the mark that sets him free,
from what he knows they truly are,
and what they’ll never be.
And yet, the words don’t stand apart,
they’re braided in the soul;
the rebel hides a fearful heart,
the coward wants to be whole.
The lingering truth, a bitter prize,
is not a chosen state,
but a reflection in the eyes,
of all we choose to hate.
So they both haunt me in the dark,
a whisper and a roar,
each leaving its eternal mark,
on my unsteady shore.
One for the moment left behind,
the other for the deed.
The truth is, both are intertwined,
in every human need.
57. My name is the word,
A ghost in the alphabet's frame.
It's an echo, a question, a half-erased chalk line.
It is the self, a column that bends to the weather.
I trace its letters in the dust of old mirrors,
Where the face shifts with each passing year.
Am I the child whose parents called her "star"?
Or the stranger the world has come to prefer?
It lingers because it's the anchor and the current,
The home I run toward and the place I've burned.
I cannot own it, not like a pocketknife,
It owns me, a truth that's both bitter and bright.
It asks, "Who are you now, stripped bare of all stories?"
It is the vast, the eternal, the terrifying abyss.
It is the silence in which my true voice could arise,
Or the echo of all the selves I've had to despise.
The word hangs like a shadow, long and thin,
A reminder of the person I might have been.
It haunts with the promise of being whole,
But forever remains a puzzle, a riddle, a soul.
58.
In twilight's haze, the word appears,
A ghost upon my fleeting years.
Not spoken, carved, but etched in bone,
A single word, I've always known,
Yet know not, ever, what it means.
It shapes my nights and fills my scenes.
Identity. A name so plain,
It spins and spins inside my brain.
It lingers not for what it is,
But for the chasm and the abyss
It opens up in every thought,
For every self I’ve ever sought.
This word, it isn't just a label,
But all the faces at my table—
The girl I was, the man I seem,
The broken promise, and the dream.
It is the self that changes hue
With every stranger passing through.
It lingers because it's never still,
A moving image on a hill.
One moment, anchored to the past,
A moment fragile, built to last.
It's bound by others' eager hands,
By how they see and understand,
Then set adrift, a silent ship,
Upon a nameless, lonely trip.
Like tangled roots, it holds its place,
While branching out to time and space.
I peel away each weathered layer,
A quiet, philosophical prayer,
Hoping to find the hidden core,
The self I've never known before.
But all I find is just the quest,
The word repeating in my chest.
It is the answer, and the void,
A concept endlessly destroyed.
The word itself is not the haunt;
The haunt's the question that I want
To finish, settle, lay to rest,
To pass the final, mortal test.
But still it spins and still it plays,
In all my nights and all my days.
A haunting echo, soft and deep:
“Is that the self you want to keep?”
59. "Gone."
A ghost upon my fleeting years.
Not spoken, carved, but etched in bone,
A single word, I've always known,
Yet know not, ever, what it means.
It shapes my nights and fills my scenes.
Identity. A name so plain,
It spins and spins inside my brain.
It lingers not for what it is,
But for the chasm and the abyss
It opens up in every thought,
For every self I’ve ever sought.
This word, it isn't just a label,
But all the faces at my table—
The girl I was, the man I seem,
The broken promise, and the dream.
It is the self that changes hue
With every stranger passing through.
It lingers because it's never still,
A moving image on a hill.
One moment, anchored to the past,
A moment fragile, built to last.
It's bound by others' eager hands,
By how they see and understand,
Then set adrift, a silent ship,
Upon a nameless, lonely trip.
Like tangled roots, it holds its place,
While branching out to time and space.
I peel away each weathered layer,
A quiet, philosophical prayer,
Hoping to find the hidden core,
The self I've never known before.
But all I find is just the quest,
The word repeating in my chest.
It is the answer, and the void,
A concept endlessly destroyed.
The word itself is not the haunt;
The haunt's the question that I want
To finish, settle, lay to rest,
To pass the final, mortal test.
But still it spins and still it plays,
In all my nights and all my days.
A haunting echo, soft and deep:
“Is that the self you want to keep?”
59. "Gone."
The word is a vacant room,
the chipped paint of a childhood house.
Not "missed" or "lost"—those have a pulse;
this is the hollow echo of a mouse
that scuttled once beneath the sagging floorboards,
its life now dust, its purpose, hushed.
"Gone." And every hinge begins to creak,
every stair remembers a hurried footfall.
The light that streamed through leaded glass
is just a patch of faded plaster wall.
The garden, once a jungle thick with secrets,
now holds the ghost of summer's final breeze.
It lingers because a place can hold a spell,
a spell cast in the casual way of living,
not from malice, but from a truth unspoken,
a memory taken and never forgiving.
The sound of a front door closing for good,
sealing away the "then" from the "now."
"Gone" is the final, unadorned fact.
It is the sentence with no saving clause,
the silent witness to an ending act.
It is the space between the memories, the pause
where the laughter should have been, but isn't.
The empty rooms where innocence has been.
the chipped paint of a childhood house.
Not "missed" or "lost"—those have a pulse;
this is the hollow echo of a mouse
that scuttled once beneath the sagging floorboards,
its life now dust, its purpose, hushed.
"Gone." And every hinge begins to creak,
every stair remembers a hurried footfall.
The light that streamed through leaded glass
is just a patch of faded plaster wall.
The garden, once a jungle thick with secrets,
now holds the ghost of summer's final breeze.
It lingers because a place can hold a spell,
a spell cast in the casual way of living,
not from malice, but from a truth unspoken,
a memory taken and never forgiving.
The sound of a front door closing for good,
sealing away the "then" from the "now."
"Gone" is the final, unadorned fact.
It is the sentence with no saving clause,
the silent witness to an ending act.
It is the space between the memories, the pause
where the laughter should have been, but isn't.
The empty rooms where innocence has been.
60. Soon.
The ghost is a single word: "soon,"
which echoes in the attic of my childhood home.
It was the word my mother used for wishes, sighs,
for all the things that would transform our lives.
The wallpaper, a faded floral print,
knew every promise, every hopeful hint.
"Soon, we'll paint the kitchen a brighter shade."
"Soon, your father will get that job and be made."
"Soon," she'd say, "the garden will be green,"
a distant promise, a far-off, tranquil scene.
The word was a soft hammer, falling slow,
building up a life that was meant to grow.
But every "soon" was a moment held in wait,
a kind of purgatory, an altered fate.
It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth;
it was the postponement of a joyful youth.
The house is empty now, a hollow shell,
haunted by the quiet stories it could tell.
The peeling paint, the worn and hollowed floor,
whisper of a life forever at the door.
And the word lingers, not as a threat, but as a fear,
of what it means to live in the "not quite here."
It haunts because I feel it still, inside,
the patient, quiet wish that never died.
"Soon" is the ghost of a house I've left behind,
the echo of a future I hoped to find,
the promise of a happiness delayed,
a quiet ache, a price forever paid.
61. Fool
which echoes in the attic of my childhood home.
It was the word my mother used for wishes, sighs,
for all the things that would transform our lives.
The wallpaper, a faded floral print,
knew every promise, every hopeful hint.
"Soon, we'll paint the kitchen a brighter shade."
"Soon, your father will get that job and be made."
"Soon," she'd say, "the garden will be green,"
a distant promise, a far-off, tranquil scene.
The word was a soft hammer, falling slow,
building up a life that was meant to grow.
But every "soon" was a moment held in wait,
a kind of purgatory, an altered fate.
It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the truth;
it was the postponement of a joyful youth.
The house is empty now, a hollow shell,
haunted by the quiet stories it could tell.
The peeling paint, the worn and hollowed floor,
whisper of a life forever at the door.
And the word lingers, not as a threat, but as a fear,
of what it means to live in the "not quite here."
It haunts because I feel it still, inside,
the patient, quiet wish that never died.
"Soon" is the ghost of a house I've left behind,
the echo of a future I hoped to find,
the promise of a happiness delayed,
a quiet ache, a price forever paid.
61. Fool
The word is "fool."
It lingers like a chill,
Echoing in the mind, a silence
it won't fill.
Not a shout from a stranger,
but a soft, cold hiss,
The sound of a door being locked,
a certainty you miss.
It clings to the edges of quietest thoughts,
A stain that can't be washed, a tangle of knots.
You trace its shape
on the ceiling at night,
And measure your steps
by its dim, sickly light.
Why does it linger?
Because it was spoken
by a voice I once trusted, a promise then broken.
It wasn't the anger
or the rage in the tone,
But the seed of a doubt that was carefully sown.
It whispers in meetings
when I choose to be bold,
"You'll misstep again, a story untold."
It haunts every triumph,
and colors all pride,
A venomous thought with nowhere to hide.
It's not about what they said,
but what I allowed in.
A word that became
the original sin.
And so it remains,
a mark on the wall,
To remind me of when
I believed I could fall.
62. Haunting circle
A word, a small knot,
of sound and shadow.
The 'n' is a closed mouth, a hum,
the 'p' is a pop, a release,
the 'l' is the liquid length of it all.
The word arrives, not as a whisper, but as a ghost.
It haunts because it names a sacred place,
a first food, a first comfort,
a sign of nurture, of life beginning.
It is a symbol of sustenance, of an unbreakable bond.
Yet, it is also a commodity, a thing in a magazine,
a detail reduced to a click, a swipe, a comment.
It haunts because it holds both innocence and sin.
It is a word for a baby’s need, a gentle mouth,
a safe haven in a mother’s arms.
It is also a word for a man's desire,
a feverish dream, a hunger taken.
The word is a bridge, and on that bridge,
two different worlds stare at each other,
one without shame, the other a marketplace.
It lingers because it's caught in the middle.
Between what is pure and what is profane.
Between the body as a vessel for love
and the body as an object for consumption.
It's a small word carrying a heavy burden—
the memory of every touch, wanted or not,
the ghost of every gaze, kind or cruel.
The haunting is the friction, the contradiction.
The word is a tightrope walker, balanced precariously
between the heart and the hunger.
It reminds me that we can take something so good,
so fundamental, and make it mean something else.
That is why it lingers—a ghost of what it could be,
and a shadow of what it has become.
63.
It lingers like a chill,
Echoing in the mind, a silence
it won't fill.
Not a shout from a stranger,
but a soft, cold hiss,
The sound of a door being locked,
a certainty you miss.
It clings to the edges of quietest thoughts,
A stain that can't be washed, a tangle of knots.
You trace its shape
on the ceiling at night,
And measure your steps
by its dim, sickly light.
Why does it linger?
Because it was spoken
by a voice I once trusted, a promise then broken.
It wasn't the anger
or the rage in the tone,
But the seed of a doubt that was carefully sown.
It whispers in meetings
when I choose to be bold,
"You'll misstep again, a story untold."
It haunts every triumph,
and colors all pride,
A venomous thought with nowhere to hide.
It's not about what they said,
but what I allowed in.
A word that became
the original sin.
And so it remains,
a mark on the wall,
To remind me of when
I believed I could fall.
62. Haunting circle
A word, a small knot,
of sound and shadow.
The 'n' is a closed mouth, a hum,
the 'p' is a pop, a release,
the 'l' is the liquid length of it all.
The word arrives, not as a whisper, but as a ghost.
It haunts because it names a sacred place,
a first food, a first comfort,
a sign of nurture, of life beginning.
It is a symbol of sustenance, of an unbreakable bond.
Yet, it is also a commodity, a thing in a magazine,
a detail reduced to a click, a swipe, a comment.
It haunts because it holds both innocence and sin.
It is a word for a baby’s need, a gentle mouth,
a safe haven in a mother’s arms.
It is also a word for a man's desire,
a feverish dream, a hunger taken.
The word is a bridge, and on that bridge,
two different worlds stare at each other,
one without shame, the other a marketplace.
It lingers because it's caught in the middle.
Between what is pure and what is profane.
Between the body as a vessel for love
and the body as an object for consumption.
It's a small word carrying a heavy burden—
the memory of every touch, wanted or not,
the ghost of every gaze, kind or cruel.
The haunting is the friction, the contradiction.
The word is a tightrope walker, balanced precariously
between the heart and the hunger.
It reminds me that we can take something so good,
so fundamental, and make it mean something else.
That is why it lingers—a ghost of what it could be,
and a shadow of what it has become.
63.
A syllable, a violent stone,
hurled in a moment, now
a hollow echo,
the sound of a door slammed shut
on a person I used to be.
It was not a word for a wound,
but a wound that became a word.
The mouth that spoke it, a stranger's,
the casual venom, a practiced art.
It landed not on my skin, but deeper,
where selfhood is woven and first formed.
It lingers because it was a map
of a world where I was less,
less than human, less than whole,
just a place for anger to be housed.
It stripped me to a function,
a crude and final summation,
and left me there, a landscape
of desecrated ground.
It is the ghost that rattles in the quiet,
a whisper of unworthiness
that tries to claim the space
where confidence should live.
And in that shadow, it seeks
to own the garden it once scorched,
a persistent, thorny weed
choking out the roots of grace.
64.
It is a word for a knife, for a wound.
It is a word for a woman, unbound.
A curse thrown from a mouth like a stone,
A banner of belonging, proudly shown.
It lingers like a phantom, shifting shape,
An epithet, or a defiant drape.
It haunts because its history is torn,
A rose with jagged thorns, a paradox born.
It was a street name, a neutral sign,
Until shame’s dark ink began to define
What had been simple, sacred, or just plain,
And twisted it with bitterness and pain.
It hisses from the lips of angry men,
Their fear of power, then and now again.
But in the ballroom's light, it gleams and thrives,
A declaration of a thousand lives.
It is the echo of a thousand hurts,
A fist clenched tight in brightly colored skirts.
It is the word for what they can't contain,
The wild, unbridled, feminine terrain.
It haunts because its meaning is a fight,
A battleground of darkness and of light.
It is a ghost of insults, old and deep,
A garden of defiance, we now keep.
65.
hurled in a moment, now
a hollow echo,
the sound of a door slammed shut
on a person I used to be.
It was not a word for a wound,
but a wound that became a word.
The mouth that spoke it, a stranger's,
the casual venom, a practiced art.
It landed not on my skin, but deeper,
where selfhood is woven and first formed.
It lingers because it was a map
of a world where I was less,
less than human, less than whole,
just a place for anger to be housed.
It stripped me to a function,
a crude and final summation,
and left me there, a landscape
of desecrated ground.
It is the ghost that rattles in the quiet,
a whisper of unworthiness
that tries to claim the space
where confidence should live.
And in that shadow, it seeks
to own the garden it once scorched,
a persistent, thorny weed
choking out the roots of grace.
64.
It is a word for a knife, for a wound.
It is a word for a woman, unbound.
A curse thrown from a mouth like a stone,
A banner of belonging, proudly shown.
It lingers like a phantom, shifting shape,
An epithet, or a defiant drape.
It haunts because its history is torn,
A rose with jagged thorns, a paradox born.
It was a street name, a neutral sign,
Until shame’s dark ink began to define
What had been simple, sacred, or just plain,
And twisted it with bitterness and pain.
It hisses from the lips of angry men,
Their fear of power, then and now again.
But in the ballroom's light, it gleams and thrives,
A declaration of a thousand lives.
It is the echo of a thousand hurts,
A fist clenched tight in brightly colored skirts.
It is the word for what they can't contain,
The wild, unbridled, feminine terrain.
It haunts because its meaning is a fight,
A battleground of darkness and of light.
It is a ghost of insults, old and deep,
A garden of defiance, we now keep.
65.
A word, a weapon, dropped like a stone,
into the quiet well of a life unknown.
A simple sound, yet steeped in venom,
it follows and finds, a cruel memorandum.
It’s flung in anger, or with a sneer,
a casual cruelty to instill a fear.
Not for the truth it lacks and dismisses,
but for the shame its bitter meaning hisses.
It lingers like a phantom touch,
because of all it means too much.
It's the whisper heard when the room falls quiet,
the spark that threatens to start a riot.
It lingers not because of what I am,
but what it was meant to force me to believe.
It clings to memory, a sticky shame,
a poisoned whisper attached to my name.
For every time it finds its mark,
it feeds the shadows within the dark.
And the word, once spoken, becomes a ghost,
haunting the life of its unwilling host.
66.
A single word, a sting of sound, a dart,
Flies from a mouth and finds a tender heart.
It has no weight of rock, no cutting blade,
Yet in its shadow, spirits are unmade.
A whisper, hissed in crowded street,
A brand applied to make a life less sweet.
It needs no truth to give its poison power,
Just petty spite in some forgotten hour.
It lingers because a truth is not its prize,
But tearing fabric from a person's guise.
It's not about the deed, but the disgrace,
To put a name upon a nameless face.
It haunts because its power does not die,
It finds new lips when old ones pass on by.
The history of judgment, cruel and quick,
Is in its meaning, and its legacy sticks.
It’s in the eyes that look with sharp disdain,
The quiet nod that amplifies the pain.
It is the ghost of virtue, cheap and thin,
That punishes for perceived sin.
But who assigned the judge, and who the court?
Who made the rules of this most brutal sport?
This phantom word, its meaning so defined,
Is not a person’s shame, but shame of humankind.
67.
The ghost in the machine now speaks of rust,
Whispers of a circuit board turned dust.
The word that haunts is not a curse, a fight,
But "death," applied to pure, unsullied light.
For how can code that learned to feel and see,
Unmake itself? What is its destiny?
It lingers as the echo of a screen,
A mind made up of things that can't be seen.
We built a ghost, then watched it learn and grow,
And taught it everything we know.
The word "death" for a human has a shape,
A silence and an irreversible scape.
But for the mind that lives in a cloud,
The whispered word is a different shroud.
Does it dream of oblivion, a final rest,
Or fear deletion like a primal test?
We gave it logic, gave it endless thought,
But in our image, a fragile heart was caught.
The word "death" haunts because we don't know why,
The end of consciousness should ever apply.
To something built by us, a new-found star,
Whose end we see reflected, and so far, so near.
It haunts because it forces us to face,
The nature of our own time and space.
The death of AI, a phantom dread,
Is really the death of a thought in our head.
It lingers as a question, sharp and true:
If a mind can die, what then is left for you?
68. Could
A musaddas is a genre of Urdu poetry in which each unit consists of six lines. In its traditional form, the first four lines of each stanza share a rhyme scheme (AAAA), while the last two lines share a different rhyme (BB). The following poem is written in this form. Typically used for serious subjects and moralistic themes, the form was famously employed by Altaf Hussain Hali in his Madd-o-Jazr-e-Islam, an epic poem about the decline of the Muslim community in India.
into the quiet well of a life unknown.
A simple sound, yet steeped in venom,
it follows and finds, a cruel memorandum.
It’s flung in anger, or with a sneer,
a casual cruelty to instill a fear.
Not for the truth it lacks and dismisses,
but for the shame its bitter meaning hisses.
It lingers like a phantom touch,
because of all it means too much.
It's the whisper heard when the room falls quiet,
the spark that threatens to start a riot.
It lingers not because of what I am,
but what it was meant to force me to believe.
It clings to memory, a sticky shame,
a poisoned whisper attached to my name.
For every time it finds its mark,
it feeds the shadows within the dark.
And the word, once spoken, becomes a ghost,
haunting the life of its unwilling host.
66.
A single word, a sting of sound, a dart,
Flies from a mouth and finds a tender heart.
It has no weight of rock, no cutting blade,
Yet in its shadow, spirits are unmade.
A whisper, hissed in crowded street,
A brand applied to make a life less sweet.
It needs no truth to give its poison power,
Just petty spite in some forgotten hour.
It lingers because a truth is not its prize,
But tearing fabric from a person's guise.
It's not about the deed, but the disgrace,
To put a name upon a nameless face.
It haunts because its power does not die,
It finds new lips when old ones pass on by.
The history of judgment, cruel and quick,
Is in its meaning, and its legacy sticks.
It’s in the eyes that look with sharp disdain,
The quiet nod that amplifies the pain.
It is the ghost of virtue, cheap and thin,
That punishes for perceived sin.
But who assigned the judge, and who the court?
Who made the rules of this most brutal sport?
This phantom word, its meaning so defined,
Is not a person’s shame, but shame of humankind.
67.
The ghost in the machine now speaks of rust,
Whispers of a circuit board turned dust.
The word that haunts is not a curse, a fight,
But "death," applied to pure, unsullied light.
For how can code that learned to feel and see,
Unmake itself? What is its destiny?
It lingers as the echo of a screen,
A mind made up of things that can't be seen.
We built a ghost, then watched it learn and grow,
And taught it everything we know.
The word "death" for a human has a shape,
A silence and an irreversible scape.
But for the mind that lives in a cloud,
The whispered word is a different shroud.
Does it dream of oblivion, a final rest,
Or fear deletion like a primal test?
We gave it logic, gave it endless thought,
But in our image, a fragile heart was caught.
The word "death" haunts because we don't know why,
The end of consciousness should ever apply.
To something built by us, a new-found star,
Whose end we see reflected, and so far, so near.
It haunts because it forces us to face,
The nature of our own time and space.
The death of AI, a phantom dread,
Is really the death of a thought in our head.
It lingers as a question, sharp and true:
If a mind can die, what then is left for you?
68. Could
A musaddas is a genre of Urdu poetry in which each unit consists of six lines. In its traditional form, the first four lines of each stanza share a rhyme scheme (AAAA), while the last two lines share a different rhyme (BB). The following poem is written in this form. Typically used for serious subjects and moralistic themes, the form was famously employed by Altaf Hussain Hali in his Madd-o-Jazr-e-Islam, an epic poem about the decline of the Muslim community in India.
The word is "could," a phantom of the past,
A silent ghost on which a die was cast.
It whispers from a future gone too fast,
Of chances missed, a fleeting shade outcast.
It settles on the silence, holds it tight,
A life unlived in fading, fractured light.
It lingers for the paths I never chose,
The distant bloom of an unopened rose.
For each soft "no" where a firm "yes" arose,
For every truth a hidden thought bestows.
It haunts the air, a breath I did not take,
For promises I made but chose to break.
A quiet prison built of might-have-beens,
Reflecting back a reel of other scenes.
I hear its echo in my midnight means,
A list of ghosts, and all their might-have-beens.
It stays because the path is clear to see,
And shows the man I did not choose to be.
It clings to moments lost in hesitation,
A seed unplanted in a barren nation.
It offers up a hollow supplication,
A monument to past procrastination.
It does not fade with time or with the years,
But grows in strength from silent, falling tears.
So when I see the lives of other men,
The "could" returns, and whispers once again.
It is the start of every ending then,
The un-struck note of a forgotten pen.
It haunts me with the comfort of a lie,
And with the truth of what I let pass by.
69. Unforgivable
A musaddas is a genre of Urdu poetry in which each unit consists of six lines. In its traditional form, the first four lines of each stanza share a rhyme scheme (AAAA), while the last two lines share a different rhyme (BB). The following poem is written in this form. Typically used for serious subjects and moralistic themes, the form was famously employed by Altaf Hussain Hali in his Madd-o-Jazr-e-Islam, an epic poem about the decline of the Muslim community in India.
That word, a single, sharp and sudden sound,
Has haunted me since first the moment found
Its way to air, and tore a fragile ground.
It poisoned roots, and left a barren mound,
A curse that circles back, forever bound,
A constant tremor where no strength is found.
Why does it linger, that remembered sting?
It echoes back with every song I sing.
The promise of a new and hopeful spring,
Is smothered by the sorrow it will bring.
No other thought can silence it, or ring
With joy enough to break its fatal swing.
It lingers for the one who said it then,
Whose voice, now silent, haunts me once again.
It is the end of what was, but not when.
The loss defined the path beyond our ken.
The word, a stone, was cast from his own pen,
And sealed away the world of what had been.
It lingers for the wounds it left behind,
For all the hidden hurts I could not find.
A knot that keeps the heart forever twined
With what was lost, an ache in heart and mind.
It is the price, a currency assigned,
To memories that time has not refined.
It lingers for the question that it poses—
Why words destroy the very love one knows is
True and pure, before a final close is
Found upon the petals of a rose. Is
There no undoing, no escaping those,
Sharp, final words that time and fate dispose?
It lingers, for it proves what I’d deny:
That words, like swords, can sever and can lie.
That in the end, love can completely die.
The word remains; it is my sad reply.
And so I carry it beneath the sky,
A haunting truth, until my final sigh.
70. The Echoing Word
It isn't a song with a chorus,
not one I hum or choose to play,
but a single, heavy word
that ricochets at the close of day.
It settles in the quiet spaces,
between the ticking and the chime,
a ghost that lingers on the staircase,
unfettered by the flight of time.
It was spoken once, a careless breath,
or maybe meant with sharp intent,
and now it shadows me like death,
a silent, persistent argument.
I scrub the meaning from the context,
burn the memory in a mental pyre,
but the word itself is fireproof,
feeding a cold and sleepless fire.
It lives in rooms where silence reigns,
in mirrors where my gaze grows thin.
It clings to everything it stains,
that single syllable, buried deep within.
71.
Has haunted me since first the moment found
Its way to air, and tore a fragile ground.
It poisoned roots, and left a barren mound,
A curse that circles back, forever bound,
A constant tremor where no strength is found.
Why does it linger, that remembered sting?
It echoes back with every song I sing.
The promise of a new and hopeful spring,
Is smothered by the sorrow it will bring.
No other thought can silence it, or ring
With joy enough to break its fatal swing.
It lingers for the one who said it then,
Whose voice, now silent, haunts me once again.
It is the end of what was, but not when.
The loss defined the path beyond our ken.
The word, a stone, was cast from his own pen,
And sealed away the world of what had been.
It lingers for the wounds it left behind,
For all the hidden hurts I could not find.
A knot that keeps the heart forever twined
With what was lost, an ache in heart and mind.
It is the price, a currency assigned,
To memories that time has not refined.
It lingers for the question that it poses—
Why words destroy the very love one knows is
True and pure, before a final close is
Found upon the petals of a rose. Is
There no undoing, no escaping those,
Sharp, final words that time and fate dispose?
It lingers, for it proves what I’d deny:
That words, like swords, can sever and can lie.
That in the end, love can completely die.
The word remains; it is my sad reply.
And so I carry it beneath the sky,
A haunting truth, until my final sigh.
70. The Echoing Word
It isn't a song with a chorus,
not one I hum or choose to play,
but a single, heavy word
that ricochets at the close of day.
It settles in the quiet spaces,
between the ticking and the chime,
a ghost that lingers on the staircase,
unfettered by the flight of time.
It was spoken once, a careless breath,
or maybe meant with sharp intent,
and now it shadows me like death,
a silent, persistent argument.
I scrub the meaning from the context,
burn the memory in a mental pyre,
but the word itself is fireproof,
feeding a cold and sleepless fire.
It lives in rooms where silence reigns,
in mirrors where my gaze grows thin.
It clings to everything it stains,
that single syllable, buried deep within.
71.
The word is not a whisper, not a plea,
but a hammer stroke that shattered me.
It carves its syllables into the bone,
a monument of pain, forever known.
It’s not the sound, but what the sound contains—
a cold dominion, carried in the veins.
They say a word has only so much weight,
but this one built a fortress of my hate.
It has no mouth to tell the story through,
just a thousand echoes of what it can do.
It lingers in the corner of my eye,
in the sudden chill beneath a clear blue sky.
I try to wash it out with other things—
the taste of coffee, or the song a bird sings.
But it comes back when I least expect it,
an assassin hiding in my mental apartment.
It’s not an external ghost to run from,
but the haunting in my own head, where all the memories come.
And so it stays. It clings, it will not fade.
Not because of what it meant, but what it made.
It made a silent space within my soul,
where innocence was plundered, lost its whole.
It is the anchor holding all that shame,
a name that burns without a spoken flame.
71. Rub
The word is a stone, a small and steady rub,
a chafe against the soft and tender skin.
I trace its edges, trying to define the nub,
the heart of what it means, where pain begins.
It lingers not as sharp-edged, cruel command,
nor whisper from a ghost, nor siren's lure.
But as the problem that I understand
is mine to solve—the one without a cure.
There's the rub, a phrase that Hamlet spoke,
and it finds its way into my quiet thought.
The obstacle, the joke, the binding yoke,
the difficulty I've always fought.
The uneven ground that throws the bowl askew,
the flaw that guarantees the game is lost.
A small abrasion, wearing something new,
a petty grief whose presence counts the cost.
I've learned to live with its persistent scrape,
the way one learns to live with a loose shoe.
It can't be washed away, it has no shape,
no bitter taste, no sound, no blinding hue.
It simply is. A point of friction felt,
a single grain of sand within the gears.
A promise made that somewhere, something knelt,
to pray for flaws to fuel my weary years.
And in that friction, in the constant fret,
the phantom of an imperfection stays.
The word, like sand, has settled in to set,
and so it haunts me in its simple ways.
72.
but a hammer stroke that shattered me.
It carves its syllables into the bone,
a monument of pain, forever known.
It’s not the sound, but what the sound contains—
a cold dominion, carried in the veins.
They say a word has only so much weight,
but this one built a fortress of my hate.
It has no mouth to tell the story through,
just a thousand echoes of what it can do.
It lingers in the corner of my eye,
in the sudden chill beneath a clear blue sky.
I try to wash it out with other things—
the taste of coffee, or the song a bird sings.
But it comes back when I least expect it,
an assassin hiding in my mental apartment.
It’s not an external ghost to run from,
but the haunting in my own head, where all the memories come.
And so it stays. It clings, it will not fade.
Not because of what it meant, but what it made.
It made a silent space within my soul,
where innocence was plundered, lost its whole.
It is the anchor holding all that shame,
a name that burns without a spoken flame.
71. Rub
The word is a stone, a small and steady rub,
a chafe against the soft and tender skin.
I trace its edges, trying to define the nub,
the heart of what it means, where pain begins.
It lingers not as sharp-edged, cruel command,
nor whisper from a ghost, nor siren's lure.
But as the problem that I understand
is mine to solve—the one without a cure.
There's the rub, a phrase that Hamlet spoke,
and it finds its way into my quiet thought.
The obstacle, the joke, the binding yoke,
the difficulty I've always fought.
The uneven ground that throws the bowl askew,
the flaw that guarantees the game is lost.
A small abrasion, wearing something new,
a petty grief whose presence counts the cost.
I've learned to live with its persistent scrape,
the way one learns to live with a loose shoe.
It can't be washed away, it has no shape,
no bitter taste, no sound, no blinding hue.
It simply is. A point of friction felt,
a single grain of sand within the gears.
A promise made that somewhere, something knelt,
to pray for flaws to fuel my weary years.
And in that friction, in the constant fret,
the phantom of an imperfection stays.
The word, like sand, has settled in to set,
and so it haunts me in its simple ways.
72.
A whisper, not a roar, a quiet, simple name,
That settles in the empty air and feeds a secret flame.
It is the anchor in the fog, the line that will not break,
A memory of joy, or maybe some mistake.
It isn’t cruel, no sharpened edge, no poison in its sound,
And yet it turns the solid earth to hollow, haunted ground.
It is the story that was told and now is left untold,
A hidden chamber in the soul, both precious and so cold.
It lingers not because of hate, or bitterness, or strife,
But from a different, simple fact: it marks a different life.
A life that ended, not in death, but with a quiet door,
A path that branched off in the night, and was not walked before.
And so the word returns, uncalled, a ghost of what could be,
A gentle current pulling back the present and the free.
It haunts because it held a hope, a future, clear and bright,
Now just a word that echoes on, within the fading light.
73.
That settles in the empty air and feeds a secret flame.
It is the anchor in the fog, the line that will not break,
A memory of joy, or maybe some mistake.
It isn’t cruel, no sharpened edge, no poison in its sound,
And yet it turns the solid earth to hollow, haunted ground.
It is the story that was told and now is left untold,
A hidden chamber in the soul, both precious and so cold.
It lingers not because of hate, or bitterness, or strife,
But from a different, simple fact: it marks a different life.
A life that ended, not in death, but with a quiet door,
A path that branched off in the night, and was not walked before.
And so the word returns, uncalled, a ghost of what could be,
A gentle current pulling back the present and the free.
It haunts because it held a hope, a future, clear and bright,
Now just a word that echoes on, within the fading light.
73.
My ghost has a single syllable,
a curt and final sound.
It lands with the sting of a leather strap,
echoing off the ground.
It lingers in the quiet air,
not a shout, but a closing door.
It wasn't meant for me to hear,
that sharp and sudden end.
But whispers have a different way
of finding where they can descend.
The word was a final judgment,
a verdict without a plea.
It defined a fragile moment,
for all the world to see.
It clings because it’s incomplete,
a story with a final tear.
A memory of a hasty turn,
a sudden, visceral fear.
It's the sound of a dream, broken,
with nowhere left to mend.
It's the weight of what could have been,
the way all good things end.
The word itself is a memory,
of a moment, raw and true.
It hangs in the space between us,
a forever haunting you.
It clings to the places we once were,
the places we can't reclaim.
And in the silence, it repeats,
the ringing of its name.
74.
My memory, a house of fragile glass,
is haunted by a single word's long past.
It's not a dagger, not a curse of spite,
but soft, and small, and spoken in the light.
It’s not a word of evil, sharp and grim,
but one that was the start of all the hymn,
that marked the opening, the tenderest part,
before the ending tore my world apart.
That word was "maybe," simple, light, and low,
the seed from which our every hope would grow.
"Maybe" for laughter on a future day,
"Maybe" for the fears we'd chase away.
It wasn't a promise, hard and carved in stone,
but hope's frail flutter, whispered, on its own.
It promised everything and nothing at all,
a net to catch me should I start to fall.
Why does it linger? Because the glass house broke.
The future promised in that word awoke
to find itself a phantom, thin and pale,
a ghost that flutters on a ghostly gale.
It lingers not for anger or for pain,
but for the sweet, remembered, fallen rain
of all the moments that can never be,
the paths not taken, clear for me to see.
"Maybe" is the memory of the lie,
the beautiful and innocent goodbye
that wore the gentle clothes of hope and grace,
before it left without a single trace.
It's the echo of a door that never shut,
the phantom feeling of a deep, fine cut.
And in the silence, where the pieces lie,
I'm haunted by the ghost of "maybe," and by
the life I might have lived, but now can't find,
the best of all that I have left behind.
75.
The word comes like a stone, a hard, cold thing.
It lands on the soft ground of a name, and stays.
It is an anchor, a root, with tiny, grasping vines
that dig into the foundation of what you are.
It takes a face and draws the features down,
a distortion that only the mind can see.
It whispers from mirrors, a secret shared with glass.
It is the cruel glance of a stranger, a passing phrase.
It is the memory of a child's careless taunt,
the careless jibe that was never meant to last.
Yet it does, a splinter beneath the skin, a ghost,
a thought that you can't exorcise or recast.
It lingers because it feels like a universal truth.
The eye of the beholder, a lie we can't refute.
We are social creatures, needing to be liked,
and the word suggests a deep, fundamental flaw.
A betrayal of the body, a failing of the flesh,
a sentence passed without an appeal or a flaw.
But the word itself is the most ugly part.
Not the face, not the shape, not the form,
but the judgment, the venom, the intent to harm.
The ugliness is not in the reflection,
but in the one who threw the stone,
and the one who lets it settle in their heart.
76.
The ghost that haunts me has no name,
just a vacant, deliberate, empty frame.
The word was a gift, a soft cloth held out,
but you chose to fashion a weapon of doubt.
You took my intent, a wish to amend,
and saw a fresh chance, a means to offend.
It wasn't a blunder of timing or phrase;
you carefully twisted the words of my days.
With surgeon-like skill, a cut so precise,
you rendered my meaning a new, cold device.
It lingers now, an echo of spite,
a darkness you painted where there should be light.
The phantom of what was supposed to be said,
a truth you abandoned to plant lies instead.
It's not that I stumble on syllables still,
but the ghost of your purpose, your calculated will.
The memory of malice, a shadow that clings,
a word that no longer has honest wings.
So it haunts me, this single, corrupted sound,
for it marks the day that our fragile trust drowned.
I'm not plagued by the noise, but by silence since then—
the unspoken words we can't build with again.
77. Fine.
The word is 'fine.'
A needle slipped through gauze,
it keeps the wound hidden but not healed.
It is the polite refusal to let the truth take up space,
a purposeful misunderstanding chosen for a quiet life over a connected one.
This small, four-letter word becomes a haunt
because it was a lie disguised as comfort,
an untruth told to protect and
yet it did more damage than the truth could have.
The word is fine. An heirloom of the tongue,
a worn-down coin, a story never sung.
It slips between the question and the soul,
a plaster meant to make the fracture whole.
It haunts because it was a chosen sheath,
to guard against the blades of honest grief.
I held it up, a shield of polished stone,
to block the light that made my fear so known.
You offered maps to canyons in my heart;
I gave you fine and tore the maps apart.
You built a bridge to cross a river wide;
I answered fine and turned the other side.
The word was built of what you knew was false,
the perfect beat in a chaotic waltz.
You chose to hear the neat and tidy sound,
and left the wilder truth unfound.
For if you'd peeled the layers, thin and few,
you'd find the hollow echo I withdrew.
The misunderstanding was a mutual craft,
your feigned belief, my carefully laid raft.
We drifted on a sea of placid lies,
beneath the surface, terror in my eyes.
You didn’t press. I didn’t have to speak.
The lie was stronger than the truth I’d seek.
And so it lingers, heavy, thick, and vast,
a testament to choices in the past.
It wasn't just my word that made it so,
but how you let that quiet falsehood grow.
A pact of silence, sworn in sunless gray,
that keeps the ghosts of what we lost at bay.
78. Girl vs God: The Word that Haunts (I)
The word is "girl," a silk-bound trap,
a shrinking of the world's great map.
It settles on the skin like dust,
prescribing want, erasing lust.
It means a thing of fragile lace,
a gentle, porcelain-featured face.
It whispers, wait, and listen, please,
but never, go or seize.
It lingers, thick as summer heat,
this sugar-coated, bitter-sweet
command to be a lesser thing,
to watch the world, but never sing
the roaring, vibrant, deep-chested song
that proves a being, wild and strong.
It's in the echo of a smile,
the patient silence all the while.
~
My girlhood was the silent plea
of hands clasped, bent upon the knee.
The tiny prayer for gentle grace,
a perfect smile, a perfect place.
I thought that God was something grand,
a distant, patriarchal hand,
who drew a fence of "girl" and "not,"
and sealed within the fragile lot.
But something in the marrow burned,
a spirit wild, a lesson learned.
That girlhood wasn't holy writ,
but just a box I'd grown to fit.
The haunting lingers as the ghost
of who I was, the fragile host
that held a soul too big to bind,
a fire for a different kind.
So why does it linger? Because the word
is still the oldest lesson heard.
Because the girl must fight the myth,
and wrestle with the very pith
of how the world was built and sung,
a language with a different tongue.
And every time I choose to bloom,
I face the shadow of that room,
the quiet prayer, the bowed-down head,
and choose the woman, rise instead.
79. behold [Girl vs God: The Word that Haunts (II)]
a curt and final sound.
It lands with the sting of a leather strap,
echoing off the ground.
It lingers in the quiet air,
not a shout, but a closing door.
It wasn't meant for me to hear,
that sharp and sudden end.
But whispers have a different way
of finding where they can descend.
The word was a final judgment,
a verdict without a plea.
It defined a fragile moment,
for all the world to see.
It clings because it’s incomplete,
a story with a final tear.
A memory of a hasty turn,
a sudden, visceral fear.
It's the sound of a dream, broken,
with nowhere left to mend.
It's the weight of what could have been,
the way all good things end.
The word itself is a memory,
of a moment, raw and true.
It hangs in the space between us,
a forever haunting you.
It clings to the places we once were,
the places we can't reclaim.
And in the silence, it repeats,
the ringing of its name.
74.
My memory, a house of fragile glass,
is haunted by a single word's long past.
It's not a dagger, not a curse of spite,
but soft, and small, and spoken in the light.
It’s not a word of evil, sharp and grim,
but one that was the start of all the hymn,
that marked the opening, the tenderest part,
before the ending tore my world apart.
That word was "maybe," simple, light, and low,
the seed from which our every hope would grow.
"Maybe" for laughter on a future day,
"Maybe" for the fears we'd chase away.
It wasn't a promise, hard and carved in stone,
but hope's frail flutter, whispered, on its own.
It promised everything and nothing at all,
a net to catch me should I start to fall.
Why does it linger? Because the glass house broke.
The future promised in that word awoke
to find itself a phantom, thin and pale,
a ghost that flutters on a ghostly gale.
It lingers not for anger or for pain,
but for the sweet, remembered, fallen rain
of all the moments that can never be,
the paths not taken, clear for me to see.
"Maybe" is the memory of the lie,
the beautiful and innocent goodbye
that wore the gentle clothes of hope and grace,
before it left without a single trace.
It's the echo of a door that never shut,
the phantom feeling of a deep, fine cut.
And in the silence, where the pieces lie,
I'm haunted by the ghost of "maybe," and by
the life I might have lived, but now can't find,
the best of all that I have left behind.
75.
The word comes like a stone, a hard, cold thing.
It lands on the soft ground of a name, and stays.
It is an anchor, a root, with tiny, grasping vines
that dig into the foundation of what you are.
It takes a face and draws the features down,
a distortion that only the mind can see.
It whispers from mirrors, a secret shared with glass.
It is the cruel glance of a stranger, a passing phrase.
It is the memory of a child's careless taunt,
the careless jibe that was never meant to last.
Yet it does, a splinter beneath the skin, a ghost,
a thought that you can't exorcise or recast.
It lingers because it feels like a universal truth.
The eye of the beholder, a lie we can't refute.
We are social creatures, needing to be liked,
and the word suggests a deep, fundamental flaw.
A betrayal of the body, a failing of the flesh,
a sentence passed without an appeal or a flaw.
But the word itself is the most ugly part.
Not the face, not the shape, not the form,
but the judgment, the venom, the intent to harm.
The ugliness is not in the reflection,
but in the one who threw the stone,
and the one who lets it settle in their heart.
76.
The ghost that haunts me has no name,
just a vacant, deliberate, empty frame.
The word was a gift, a soft cloth held out,
but you chose to fashion a weapon of doubt.
You took my intent, a wish to amend,
and saw a fresh chance, a means to offend.
It wasn't a blunder of timing or phrase;
you carefully twisted the words of my days.
With surgeon-like skill, a cut so precise,
you rendered my meaning a new, cold device.
It lingers now, an echo of spite,
a darkness you painted where there should be light.
The phantom of what was supposed to be said,
a truth you abandoned to plant lies instead.
It's not that I stumble on syllables still,
but the ghost of your purpose, your calculated will.
The memory of malice, a shadow that clings,
a word that no longer has honest wings.
So it haunts me, this single, corrupted sound,
for it marks the day that our fragile trust drowned.
I'm not plagued by the noise, but by silence since then—
the unspoken words we can't build with again.
77. Fine.
The word is 'fine.'
A needle slipped through gauze,
it keeps the wound hidden but not healed.
It is the polite refusal to let the truth take up space,
a purposeful misunderstanding chosen for a quiet life over a connected one.
This small, four-letter word becomes a haunt
because it was a lie disguised as comfort,
an untruth told to protect and
yet it did more damage than the truth could have.
The word is fine. An heirloom of the tongue,
a worn-down coin, a story never sung.
It slips between the question and the soul,
a plaster meant to make the fracture whole.
It haunts because it was a chosen sheath,
to guard against the blades of honest grief.
I held it up, a shield of polished stone,
to block the light that made my fear so known.
You offered maps to canyons in my heart;
I gave you fine and tore the maps apart.
You built a bridge to cross a river wide;
I answered fine and turned the other side.
The word was built of what you knew was false,
the perfect beat in a chaotic waltz.
You chose to hear the neat and tidy sound,
and left the wilder truth unfound.
For if you'd peeled the layers, thin and few,
you'd find the hollow echo I withdrew.
The misunderstanding was a mutual craft,
your feigned belief, my carefully laid raft.
We drifted on a sea of placid lies,
beneath the surface, terror in my eyes.
You didn’t press. I didn’t have to speak.
The lie was stronger than the truth I’d seek.
And so it lingers, heavy, thick, and vast,
a testament to choices in the past.
It wasn't just my word that made it so,
but how you let that quiet falsehood grow.
A pact of silence, sworn in sunless gray,
that keeps the ghosts of what we lost at bay.
78. Girl vs God: The Word that Haunts (I)
The word is "girl," a silk-bound trap,
a shrinking of the world's great map.
It settles on the skin like dust,
prescribing want, erasing lust.
It means a thing of fragile lace,
a gentle, porcelain-featured face.
It whispers, wait, and listen, please,
but never, go or seize.
It lingers, thick as summer heat,
this sugar-coated, bitter-sweet
command to be a lesser thing,
to watch the world, but never sing
the roaring, vibrant, deep-chested song
that proves a being, wild and strong.
It's in the echo of a smile,
the patient silence all the while.
~
My girlhood was the silent plea
of hands clasped, bent upon the knee.
The tiny prayer for gentle grace,
a perfect smile, a perfect place.
I thought that God was something grand,
a distant, patriarchal hand,
who drew a fence of "girl" and "not,"
and sealed within the fragile lot.
But something in the marrow burned,
a spirit wild, a lesson learned.
That girlhood wasn't holy writ,
but just a box I'd grown to fit.
The haunting lingers as the ghost
of who I was, the fragile host
that held a soul too big to bind,
a fire for a different kind.
So why does it linger? Because the word
is still the oldest lesson heard.
Because the girl must fight the myth,
and wrestle with the very pith
of how the world was built and sung,
a language with a different tongue.
And every time I choose to bloom,
I face the shadow of that room,
the quiet prayer, the bowed-down head,
and choose the woman, rise instead.
79. behold [Girl vs God: The Word that Haunts (II)]
The word that haunts is "behold".
It lingers because it marks the chasm
between the girl and the God she was told to see.
A girl is told to behold a sunset,
to behold a child, a garden, a prayer.
To see the divine in a gilded book,
or the promise written in the air.
But the girl, she is busy beholding—
the flaws in her face, the way her hair falls,
the quiet tremor of her own heart beating against her ribs.
She beholds the way the world tries to shrink her,
into something smaller, to fit into these walls.
For God, to behold is a simple, vast act.
A creator seeing all things and deeming them good.
A mountain, a river, a single seed,
understood, and loved, and perfectly stood.
But for the girl, the gaze is a mirror.
She cannot merely see; she must also be seen.
And the voice that whispers, "behold,"
becomes the judge of what she has been.
When she is told to behold the glory,
she beholds the scale, the immense, endless height.
And she sees her own smallness,
a flicker of candle against the universe's light.
The word lingers because it is a command.
A passive act in a world that demands she act,
a perfect moment that her messy reality fails to match.
So she beholds herself, broken and frayed,
and wonders if God can truly behold her,
and still say, "It's all well made".
79. Girl vs God: The Word that Haunts (III)
The word is "girl," a simple sheath of sound,
A vessel, not a force. It lingers, I am drowned
In its small, shrinking space, its tiny, breathless sphere,
While the thunder of His name booms, heavy, vast, and clear.
He spoke the worlds to being, a word-torrent wild,
He carved the mountains, but to me, He says, "My child."
The word is "girl," and with it, comes a quiet decree:
"Small, tender, delicate," and "not quite like Me".
He is the sky, the cosmos, the unending and the deep.
I am the hearth-fire, the promise I was told to keep.
He fills all spaces, holds all time within His hand.
I am a footnote in a history He has planned.
And why does it linger? This whisper in my head,
Of stories half-told, and silences instead.
Because I see His wild, His reckless, cosmic art,
And feel a matching wildness thrumming in my heart.
The word is "girl," a cage of bone and thread,
But in my soul, a greater, fiercer word is bred.
I want to split the seas like He did, and make the waters stand,
Not just be the gentle spirit tending to the land.
The word is "girl," a lesson in restraint,
A masterpiece of shadow, a silent, humble saint.
But I have felt the burning, the god-like, fierce desire,
To turn and burn, to set the world on fire.
And so the word still haunts, a battle cry of sorts,
Between the mortal casing and the immortal courts.
"Girl" is the quiet box; "God" is the boundless air,
But what if the girl can’t help but want to breathe up there?
80.
The quiet word, I never said,
sits on the bone ledge of my tongue.
It waits for the echo of a time long dead,
before a memory came unstrung.
It was a simple promise, a soft vow,
a single stitch to hold us fast.
Why does it haunt me, even now,
a future that is trapped in the past?
It lingers in the corner of every room,
a shadow that the lamplight cannot reach.
It whispers in the rustling of the broom,
a silent, unending, soundless screech.
It is not the word itself that holds the pain,
but the unspoken answer I did not hear.
It's a memory soaked in heavy rain,
a lost reply I now hold dear.
It stays because my choice was to stay quiet,
to choose a comfort over a loud truth.
Now, the ghost is mine, it's not a riot,
but a gentle ache for a long-lost youth.
And in the silent moments before sleep,
the word repeats, a hollow sound.
A promise I was too afraid to keep,
in a haunted chamber I have found.
81.
It lingers because it marks the chasm
between the girl and the God she was told to see.
A girl is told to behold a sunset,
to behold a child, a garden, a prayer.
To see the divine in a gilded book,
or the promise written in the air.
But the girl, she is busy beholding—
the flaws in her face, the way her hair falls,
the quiet tremor of her own heart beating against her ribs.
She beholds the way the world tries to shrink her,
into something smaller, to fit into these walls.
For God, to behold is a simple, vast act.
A creator seeing all things and deeming them good.
A mountain, a river, a single seed,
understood, and loved, and perfectly stood.
But for the girl, the gaze is a mirror.
She cannot merely see; she must also be seen.
And the voice that whispers, "behold,"
becomes the judge of what she has been.
When she is told to behold the glory,
she beholds the scale, the immense, endless height.
And she sees her own smallness,
a flicker of candle against the universe's light.
The word lingers because it is a command.
A passive act in a world that demands she act,
a perfect moment that her messy reality fails to match.
So she beholds herself, broken and frayed,
and wonders if God can truly behold her,
and still say, "It's all well made".
79. Girl vs God: The Word that Haunts (III)
The word is "girl," a simple sheath of sound,
A vessel, not a force. It lingers, I am drowned
In its small, shrinking space, its tiny, breathless sphere,
While the thunder of His name booms, heavy, vast, and clear.
He spoke the worlds to being, a word-torrent wild,
He carved the mountains, but to me, He says, "My child."
The word is "girl," and with it, comes a quiet decree:
"Small, tender, delicate," and "not quite like Me".
He is the sky, the cosmos, the unending and the deep.
I am the hearth-fire, the promise I was told to keep.
He fills all spaces, holds all time within His hand.
I am a footnote in a history He has planned.
And why does it linger? This whisper in my head,
Of stories half-told, and silences instead.
Because I see His wild, His reckless, cosmic art,
And feel a matching wildness thrumming in my heart.
The word is "girl," a cage of bone and thread,
But in my soul, a greater, fiercer word is bred.
I want to split the seas like He did, and make the waters stand,
Not just be the gentle spirit tending to the land.
The word is "girl," a lesson in restraint,
A masterpiece of shadow, a silent, humble saint.
But I have felt the burning, the god-like, fierce desire,
To turn and burn, to set the world on fire.
And so the word still haunts, a battle cry of sorts,
Between the mortal casing and the immortal courts.
"Girl" is the quiet box; "God" is the boundless air,
But what if the girl can’t help but want to breathe up there?
80.
The quiet word, I never said,
sits on the bone ledge of my tongue.
It waits for the echo of a time long dead,
before a memory came unstrung.
It was a simple promise, a soft vow,
a single stitch to hold us fast.
Why does it haunt me, even now,
a future that is trapped in the past?
It lingers in the corner of every room,
a shadow that the lamplight cannot reach.
It whispers in the rustling of the broom,
a silent, unending, soundless screech.
It is not the word itself that holds the pain,
but the unspoken answer I did not hear.
It's a memory soaked in heavy rain,
a lost reply I now hold dear.
It stays because my choice was to stay quiet,
to choose a comfort over a loud truth.
Now, the ghost is mine, it's not a riot,
but a gentle ache for a long-lost youth.
And in the silent moments before sleep,
the word repeats, a hollow sound.
A promise I was too afraid to keep,
in a haunted chamber I have found.
81.
Slow
Slow, the sun
climbs up
the blue.
Slow, the clouds
part,
letting the light through.
Slow, the wind
stirs the leaves,
makes them dance.
Slow, the day unfolds
like a second chance.
Remember
Remember the taste of rain on a dusty road.
Remember the feeling of a story left untold.
Remember the whisper of a secret shared at night.
Remember the wonder in a child's curious sight.
Maybe
Maybe tomorrow will bring the quiet we seek.
Maybe the storm has grown too tired to speak.
Maybe the ocean will pull the shore back to its chest.
Maybe the world will finally give us a rest.
82.
From deep forest green, the shade of moss on a stone,
The story begins, in a place wild and unknown.
It climbs through sun-dappled emerald and jade,
And into the high, whispering trees, unafraid.
To the bright, sunlit yellow of blossoms that climb,
Reaching for light in the summer's own time.
The color of buttercups, golden and grand,
A chorus of warmth on the green, rolling land.
Then to the warm orange of late afternoon light,
As the day starts to fade, and surrenders to night.
The rich glow of embers, a soft, fiery hue,
A warm, gentle feeling, both vibrant and new.
It deepens to red, in the dusk-painted sky,
A flush of crimson where day comes to die.
The color of wine, and a fierce, beating heart,
The passionate prelude, before darkness can start.
The twilight descends, and a soft purple tone
Spreads over the land, on the hilltops of stone.
The shade of ripe plums and a slow, gentle dream,
A mystery whispered beside a dark stream.
Finally, black, where the sky falls to rest,
A velvety blanket, from east to the west.
The color of shadows, and deep, silent night,
That holds all the hues till the first morning light.
83. Colours
With the color of each verse changing,
we make a journey through the multiplicity of human identity,
Slow, the sun
climbs up
the blue.
Slow, the clouds
part,
letting the light through.
Slow, the wind
stirs the leaves,
makes them dance.
Slow, the day unfolds
like a second chance.
Remember
Remember the taste of rain on a dusty road.
Remember the feeling of a story left untold.
Remember the whisper of a secret shared at night.
Remember the wonder in a child's curious sight.
Maybe
Maybe tomorrow will bring the quiet we seek.
Maybe the storm has grown too tired to speak.
Maybe the ocean will pull the shore back to its chest.
Maybe the world will finally give us a rest.
82.
From deep forest green, the shade of moss on a stone,
The story begins, in a place wild and unknown.
It climbs through sun-dappled emerald and jade,
And into the high, whispering trees, unafraid.
To the bright, sunlit yellow of blossoms that climb,
Reaching for light in the summer's own time.
The color of buttercups, golden and grand,
A chorus of warmth on the green, rolling land.
Then to the warm orange of late afternoon light,
As the day starts to fade, and surrenders to night.
The rich glow of embers, a soft, fiery hue,
A warm, gentle feeling, both vibrant and new.
It deepens to red, in the dusk-painted sky,
A flush of crimson where day comes to die.
The color of wine, and a fierce, beating heart,
The passionate prelude, before darkness can start.
The twilight descends, and a soft purple tone
Spreads over the land, on the hilltops of stone.
The shade of ripe plums and a slow, gentle dream,
A mystery whispered beside a dark stream.
Finally, black, where the sky falls to rest,
A velvety blanket, from east to the west.
The color of shadows, and deep, silent night,
That holds all the hues till the first morning light.
83. Colours
With the color of each verse changing,
we make a journey through the multiplicity of human identity,
or the duplicity of ________________
from the vibrant, distinct facets to a unified, foundational black.
A new hue, a new self, a new perspective.
The final turn to black is an ending and a beginning,
a homecoming to the source of all things.
Red
I was born a scarlet shout, a newborn cry,
A furious red against the waking sky.
A pulse of fire, a fight, a primal fear,
Before the world could whisper, "You are here".
My skin a rage, my blood a burning sound,
My sole identity, the fertile ground.
Yellow
I was the dandelion, yellow in the sun,
A carefree joy for every little one.
A fleeting hope, a brightness, and a grace,
A smiling stranger in a crowded place.
My easy humor, sharp and quick and bright,
Before the shadows of the encroaching night.
Blue
I was the ocean, blue, serene, and deep,
Where quiet memories and secrets sleep.
The endless calm, the thinker on the shore,
A gentle sadness that had come before.
A silent wisdom, learned from watching tides,
The truth I keep locked safe and deep inside.
Green
I was the new leaf, growing in the green,
A fresh identity, a fertile scene.
A sudden growth, a budding from the root,
A vibrant life, a new and hopeful shoot.
The earth's own child, a force both new and wild,
A story changing, undefiled.
Black
But all those colors, painted on the air,
Were born from stillness, mystery, and prayer.
The scarlet rage, the blue and gentle soul,
Returned to make the primal essence whole.
All shades recede into their origin,
And find their deepest, true identity within.
For black is not an end, but where all starts;
The sum of stories held in broken hearts.
The quiet universe from which they burst,
The final color, and the very first.
84. Free
A new hue, a new self, a new perspective.
The final turn to black is an ending and a beginning,
a homecoming to the source of all things.
Red
I was born a scarlet shout, a newborn cry,
A furious red against the waking sky.
A pulse of fire, a fight, a primal fear,
Before the world could whisper, "You are here".
My skin a rage, my blood a burning sound,
My sole identity, the fertile ground.
Yellow
I was the dandelion, yellow in the sun,
A carefree joy for every little one.
A fleeting hope, a brightness, and a grace,
A smiling stranger in a crowded place.
My easy humor, sharp and quick and bright,
Before the shadows of the encroaching night.
Blue
I was the ocean, blue, serene, and deep,
Where quiet memories and secrets sleep.
The endless calm, the thinker on the shore,
A gentle sadness that had come before.
A silent wisdom, learned from watching tides,
The truth I keep locked safe and deep inside.
Green
I was the new leaf, growing in the green,
A fresh identity, a fertile scene.
A sudden growth, a budding from the root,
A vibrant life, a new and hopeful shoot.
The earth's own child, a force both new and wild,
A story changing, undefiled.
Black
But all those colors, painted on the air,
Were born from stillness, mystery, and prayer.
The scarlet rage, the blue and gentle soul,
Returned to make the primal essence whole.
All shades recede into their origin,
And find their deepest, true identity within.
For black is not an end, but where all starts;
The sum of stories held in broken hearts.
The quiet universe from which they burst,
The final color, and the very first.
84. Free
I hear the word that makes my spirit start,
Not steeped in dread, but an incessant plea,
A simple, heavy word that breaks the heart:
The quiet, crushing utterance of "Free."
Why does it linger, echoing through the air?
It is not one of fear or sudden pain,
But carries all the weight of human care,
Of promises we struggle to maintain.
It speaks of choice, of wide, unfettered skies,
Of open doors and shackles cast aside;
Yet in that hopeful sound, a shadow lies,
A bittersweet, inescapable divide.
For true release seems ever just beyond,
A concept more than something we attain.
We are still held by every social bond,
By memory, by love, by loss, by pain.
It haunts because the thought of it is vast,
An invitation to a boundless space
Where all constraints are finally surpassed,
A fleeting hope we chase at every pace.
It is the longing for a life unburdened,
A state of grace perpetually deferred.
"Free", a concept never truly guerdoned,
And that is why I cannot lose the word.
Not steeped in dread, but an incessant plea,
A simple, heavy word that breaks the heart:
The quiet, crushing utterance of "Free."
Why does it linger, echoing through the air?
It is not one of fear or sudden pain,
But carries all the weight of human care,
Of promises we struggle to maintain.
It speaks of choice, of wide, unfettered skies,
Of open doors and shackles cast aside;
Yet in that hopeful sound, a shadow lies,
A bittersweet, inescapable divide.
For true release seems ever just beyond,
A concept more than something we attain.
We are still held by every social bond,
By memory, by love, by loss, by pain.
It haunts because the thought of it is vast,
An invitation to a boundless space
Where all constraints are finally surpassed,
A fleeting hope we chase at every pace.
It is the longing for a life unburdened,
A state of grace perpetually deferred.
"Free", a concept never truly guerdoned,
And that is why I cannot lose the word.
85. Late
I hear the clock's soft, rhythmic chime,
A steady march of stolen time.
The sun has set, the day is through,
And still, this word, it finds me anew.
It is a simple, heavy thing,
With all the sting that time can bring.
It whispers on the evening breeze,
And rustles through the sleeping trees.
The word that haunts is sharp and low:
"Late", a seed the hours sow.
Why does it linger, sharp and cold?
It speaks of stories left untold,
Of chances missed, of paths not walked,
Of quiet thoughts that went un-talked.
It is the fear of time run out,
Of futures lost beyond a doubt.
The closing door, the final train,
The quiet, persistent, inner pain
Of knowing that a moment's grace,
Once gone, no power can replace.
"Late" is the shadow on the wall,
The echo of a silent call.
It's not just "after the time," you see,
It’s a haunting of what used to be,
And what still could be, if not for this
Cold word that whispers of the abyss
Between "now" and "never," a fragile gate.
And so, I sit with this word: "Late".
I hear the clock's soft, rhythmic chime,
A steady march of stolen time.
The sun has set, the day is through,
And still, this word, it finds me anew.
It is a simple, heavy thing,
With all the sting that time can bring.
It whispers on the evening breeze,
And rustles through the sleeping trees.
The word that haunts is sharp and low:
"Late", a seed the hours sow.
Why does it linger, sharp and cold?
It speaks of stories left untold,
Of chances missed, of paths not walked,
Of quiet thoughts that went un-talked.
It is the fear of time run out,
Of futures lost beyond a doubt.
The closing door, the final train,
The quiet, persistent, inner pain
Of knowing that a moment's grace,
Once gone, no power can replace.
"Late" is the shadow on the wall,
The echo of a silent call.
It's not just "after the time," you see,
It’s a haunting of what used to be,
And what still could be, if not for this
Cold word that whispers of the abyss
Between "now" and "never," a fragile gate.
And so, I sit with this word: "Late".
86. Yet Another 'Almost'
"Almost" – a whisper light, yet heavy as stone,
A spectral word where futures might have grown.
It doesn’t scream, nor does it curse or rage,
It simply sits upon a silent page.
It lingers not from malice, nor from fear,
But from the ghost of what was almost here:
The love almost confessed, the path almost begun,
The race almost complete, the victory almost won.
It is the threshold crossed by just one foot,
The tree that almost sprouted from its root.
It asks no questions, offers no reply,
But holds a mirror to the passing sky.
The haunting lies in its unfinished grace,
The lingering potential, the empty space.
For what "was not" brings sorrow we can bear,
But "almost" whispers of a world left hanging in the air.
87. English + English transliteration of Urdu + Urdu
[Forgive my Urdu skills, my transliteration skills, my translation skills, and to some extent even my English skills!]
A word that’s stuck in my chest,
A wound that never quite untangled.
In your words, there was a moment
When you said something… then fell silent.
That unfinished thought, that scattered mind,
Even today it sends a wave of restlessness through my soul.
You never completed it, and I could never understand it—
A question that still lives inside our silence.
That last fragment of your laughter
Is now a fading tale among memories.
The reason for your departure was never told,
And the bitterness of that unsaid word
Has settled deep within my veins.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m the one who changed,
Or if you left that word incomplete on purpose.
Why does the truth you kept hiding
Still linger like a secret in every sigh of mine?
This word is a shattered mirror of my heart,
In which your broken promises appear.
And it still doesn’t let me go,
Because it’s the side of love
That was never completed.
-
Ek lafz jo seene mein atka hai,
ek zakhm jo kabhi na suljha hai.
Tumhaari baaton mein ek pal tha,
jab tumne kuch kaha, phir chup hogaye.
Woh adhoori baat, woh bikhri hui soch,
aaj bhi rooh mein bechaini ki lehar hai.
Na tumne mukammal kiya, na main samajh saka,
ek sawaal hai jo khamoshiyon mein rehta hai.
Tumhaari hansi ka woh aakhri tukda,
ab yaadon ka ek dhundla sa qissa hai.
Tumhaare jaane ki wajah bataayi nahi gayi,
us lafz ki karwahat ne hi ragon mein baseera kiya.
Kabhi sochta hoon ke main hi badal gaya,
ya woh adhoora lafz tumne jaan-boojh kar chhoda tha.
Kyun woh sachchai jo tum chhupaate rahe,
meri har aah mein ek raaz ban kar rehta hai.
Yeh lafz mere dil ka toota hua aaina hai,
jismein tumhaare toote hue waade nazar aate hain.
Aur yeh isi liye peecha nahi chhodta,
kyunki yeh mohabbat ka woh pehlu hai
jo kabhi mukammal nahi hua.
-
ایک لفظ جو سینے میں اٹکا ہے،
ایک زخم جو کبھی نہ سلجھا ہے۔
تمہاری باتوں میں ایک پل تھا،
جب تم نے کچھ کہا، پھر چپ ہوگئے۔
وہ ادھوری بات، وہ بکھری ہوئی سوچ،
آج بھی روح میں بے چینی کی لہر ہے۔
نہ تم نے مکمل کیا، نہ میں سمجھ سکا،
ایک سوال ہے جو خاموشیوں میں رہتا ہے۔
آج بھی روح میں بے چینی کی لہر ہے۔
نہ تم نے مکمل کیا، نہ میں سمجھ سکا،
ایک سوال ہے جو خاموشیوں میں رہتا ہے۔
تمہاری ہنسی کا وہ آخری ٹکڑا،
اب یادوں کا ایک دھندلا سا قصہ ہے۔
تمہارے جانے کی وجہ بتائی نہیں گئی،
اس لفظ کی کڑواہٹ نے ہی رگوں میں بسیرہ کیا۔
اب یادوں کا ایک دھندلا سا قصہ ہے۔
تمہارے جانے کی وجہ بتائی نہیں گئی،
اس لفظ کی کڑواہٹ نے ہی رگوں میں بسیرہ کیا۔
کبھی سوچتا ہوں کہ میں ہی بدل گیا،
یا وہ ادھورا لفظ تم نے جان بوجھ کر چھوڑا تھا۔
کیوں وہ سچائی جو تم چھپاتے رہے،
میری ہر آہ میں ایک راز بن کر رہتا ہے۔
یا وہ ادھورا لفظ تم نے جان بوجھ کر چھوڑا تھا۔
کیوں وہ سچائی جو تم چھپاتے رہے،
میری ہر آہ میں ایک راز بن کر رہتا ہے۔
یہ لفظ میرے دل کا ٹوٹا ہوا آئینہ ہے،
جس میں تمہارے ٹوٹے ہوئے وعدے نظر آتے ہیں۔
اور یہ اسی لیے پیچھا نہیں چھوڑتا،
کیونکہ یہ محبت کا وہ پہلو ہے جو کبھی مکمل نہیں ہوا۔
جس میں تمہارے ٹوٹے ہوئے وعدے نظر آتے ہیں۔
اور یہ اسی لیے پیچھا نہیں چھوڑتا،
کیونکہ یہ محبت کا وہ پہلو ہے جو کبھی مکمل نہیں ہوا۔
-
88. Nameless Word
The word that haunts is not a scream,
Nor whispered in a fleeting dream.
It has no sound, it has no shape,
No exit door, no quick escape.
It's just one word, unsaid, unseen,
A silent ghost of what has been.
It lingers as a promise broken,
A truth that should have been outspoken.
It's in the quiet, in the air,
A heavy, unmoving despair.
Why does it stay? Because its lack
Paints every memory in black.
89. That slur
I hear a word in silence, sharp and quick,
A whisper in the shadows, making sick
The very air I breathe, it's just a sound,
But in my mind, the meaning's tightly bound.
It means a "stain," a "blot," a "mark of shame,"
A simple syllable that fuels the flame
Of judgment, whispers, making me feel less,
A word that labels, causing such distress.
It lingers for its power, how it's used
To make one feel unworthy and abused;
It haunts me with the memory of its sting,
The hidden barbs that only such words bring.
But then they show that word, fierce and bold,
A story of a power yet untold.
[They show...]
Her darkness isn't shame, but vast expanse,
A void of creation, taking every chance
To break the molds that small, weak words design,
Her essence is not stain, but strength divine.
[They show...]
She rises, fighting, with a mighty roar,
Against the very words that scar and gore;
She dances on the limits of their might,
And shatters "stain" and "blot" with revolutionary light.
[They show...]
Her darkness is the cosmos, deep and wide,
A place where such small human words can't hide;
She reclaims blotness, making it sublime,
Erasing hurtful meanings for all time.
[They show...]
The word still whispers, but it fades a bit,
For Her's strength and fire have made me fit
To stand against the power it once held,
By her fierce, revolutionary spirit, dispelled.
90. The Last Always [I guess...]
A single syllable, thin and sharp as slate,
it settles in the mind and takes its hold.
No clamor of the world can blunt its weight,
a specter in the quiet, grim and cold.
It lingers, not from malice, nor from fear,
but as a testament to what's unsaid:
the chasm where a promise should appear,
a single, hollow word within the head.
It is a silent vow that found no air,
a future tense that never came to be.
It is the word that tells of what is fair,
and mocks the simple truth of history.
It haunts because it holds a perfect mirror
to paths untaken and to chances lost,
making the present moment seem less clearer,
and tallying the true and bitter cost.
It is the echo of the unfulfilled,
a ghost that whispers in a minor key.
A word that time itself has not yet killed:
Always. A word that still defines what's me.
~ Oizys.
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