THE FORGOTTEN STORIES

Just when I thought you can no longer affect me,  Your red sweater hanging in the wardrobe talked loudly,  Of fondness and passion that once kept my soul alive Of rainy days and summer sadness and of plaintive songs of our love.  You robbed me of everything that relinquished my soul of constant sorrow.  I  wonder how you remember me  because we can no longer be friends or foes.  It's strange to pretend to be strangers for the rest of our days.  But your sweater still smells of the coffee I spilled that day,  Mixed with that cologne of yours that used to drive me crazy,  I bet I can extract them without hurting a thread.  I wish we were different people who would cuddle into the sweater,  without saving up a look to hurt each other I envy people who still find love,  who still get to keep sweaters,  without feeling the need to return them.  I guess this is what they call an 'ex',  And I have passed the test to become one,  To think over you often on sober nights,  on lonely

They say twenty-five matters,  25 is the age where you are asked to be responsible,  You are supposed to bring home food,  It's an age where your uterus has to be fukcing good,  It is an age where you have to be fair And good as a nymph,  It is when your wallet should have a five-figure sum.  They say at twenty-five,  You will be twenty-five times purer than ever,  To breed and nurture,  No dear not your dreams, but your children's.  But that's not it.  I SAY THAT IS NOT IT.  It is an age where you realize,  You no longer have the desire to live the monotonous life,  You no longer feel alive at a celebration,  You find yourself as the perfect company,  You don't care if you die today or tomorrow,  You want to puke at people who restrict you from doing things.  You no longer want to be surrounded by people,  And your skills are your only saviours.  At 25, you no longer care if people love you or hate you, you realize your mental health matters than physical,  Your dreams

  My therapist told me I have a big heart.  Little did she know that how crowded it is.  How there is not enough space for another sane idea.  It seems that the weeds are having a good time here,  Feeding on the garbage around,  Dancing at the wreckage of walls.  There are rooms with sad songs that are played on loop,  Rooms with multi-storage facilities for miscellaneous memories,  The congested small ones have the happy pieces of cakes,  With donuts and cupcakes served alongside.  Just because I don't know how to flirt,  There are rooms where I have locked up my crushes, in the very posture, I want to imagine them,  It's funny how they are thinking of their actual lovers.  The huge pool with waters from the leaking walls are stored,  Sometimes gets gory with less amount of attention.  I also have wetlands where some dear ones from the past,  Struggle in the poison of patriarchy and misogyny,  To which I don't give a damn.  The flowers in the garden are dried out,  The gam

Smitten by you, I was ascending to heaven from hell,  I could not find any pill to cure my pounding heart,  My mind is cleaned with waters of your charms,  And I fell into something that I should not have.  Every time you spell my name, I'm taken to the land of passion again, after years.  Every time you say goodbye, I see our eyes locking,  Our pupils struggle with embarrassment from unspoken emotions.  Every time I catch you looking at me,  I feel stupid, and Every time you talk to me, I do compare it with others.  A trail of first things are happening with me when I think of you, and I get erased into the four-dimensional world of entanglement.  My feelings are opaque in your presence to force you to look at me,  But it becomes transparent in my loneliness,  And takes the form of full-time fledged smiles,  Hovering above my room with wings.  What have you done to me?  This cannot happen and I will not reveal my feelings,  Unless you give the right signal.  All the signals that I

  Dear Gretta,     Your songs are like a poem that was long forgotten, that gives a dejavu everytime I listen to it. It  reminds me of New York City where you felt alone, where you were ditched by Dave and where you found yourself through Dan. You were never ready to compromise, you  were fully conscious of what you were doing and never doubted your own instincts. Even when you felt a connection with Dan, you helped Violet to reconnect with him, bringing out the beautiful guitarist in her, which eventually got him back to his family. Yet you smiled for being the reason behind reuniting Dan with his family, you smiled even when you knew that this would leave you all alone again. You gave yourself truly into your songs that you could not tolerate the loss of its essence, the mere commercialization of it.  You breathed music, danced and walked with it. Even when you knew that those are fleeting moments, the moments in New York City where every song in your playlist gave meanings to every

  Bonjour, enchanté. If you love Paris and its fashion, then Emily in Paris is for you. The new Netflix series is a mixture of romance, friendship, comedy, self-discovery, and a lot of fashion. It is undoubtedly every girl’s desire to visit Paris once in their lifetime and be a part of the city’s incredible culture. Well, Emily in Paris helps you to fulfill this desire to a great extend virtually. Binge-watching the ten episodes will get you right in Emily’s apartment and be a silent viewer of her problems. The culture clash that Emily experiences take us to the life of French people who unlike Americans ‘work to live’ and love the French movies which portray the tragic aspect of real-life without creating the fairy tale to give unnecessary hope to people. Created by Darren Star the maker of Beverly Hills, 90210, Sex and the City, and many other shows and produced by Lilly Collins herself and others, the series offers you the best quarantine watch. Lilly Collins, who plays the eponymou

Horror is lurking behind every moment of darkness, Seeming to be human, we cannot distinguish you from Grendel. We see no Beowulfs coming to rip off your arms that aid you well. When every closed door warns us, Every stare seems to map our bodies, Every vehicle appears to follow us, Every touch seems to warn us, You, cultured and well behaved, You are the light of the day, You are the Lord of the people, Who metamorphose into damned dangers  At the end of the day. Your venomous fangs go in search of  Prey, You wait in the darkness with twinkling eyes, Admiring the power of your hands, That can open up hearts, And show the uncultured your worth.  After every hunting, the sycophants who surround you, Kiss your hands and touch your feet. They wash your dirt and make your bed. They cure your sickness by gifting you scepters. Making you invisible, they uproot every Beowulfs to ensure your reign. Thus you flourish, never to die but to hunt and haunt. And behind your house, we see a pile of d