bidyaa

19 I N T R O V E R T //Once I follow you, I read entirely everything you write��//

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  • bidyaa 1w

    Life isn't a race

    I have realized that in life, happiness counts the most. Life isn't a race to compete with others. It's not always about what common sense suggests or what the society would say. It's not always about academic excellence. It's not even about people in your circle moving ahead of you and you being left out. We can live life at our own pace because we grow at different rates. We should take our own time to decide where we should head.

    Some of my friends dropped out from school at early age. Some of them got married and also have kids. While some are just loitering around looking for something to do in life. Most of us are in high-school, probably the final year and all of us are happy. Those who were addicted to alcohol and blamed others for their failures have learned that they must progress and are happy that they gained maturity.

    I am happy at school, making plans about my career, and the others too are happy with what they are doing. One of my friends, became a father last week, he is extremely happy. Even I am happy for him because he experienced life well and is happy with the little things he has in life. His wife and his newborn baby are his lifeline. He loves them a lot. There are some other friends who have picked up small jobs like cashier and so on. They are happy, earning and helping their own families.

    Although they didn't excel academically and couldn't pave their way to success through studies, they found their ultimate goals through other means. And those of us who are still studying, haven't yet found out what we are supposed to do but we are academically ahead. We may have degrees and certificates as the evidence of our learnings in some years to come but they have even stronger weapons; experience. They would tell us how hard it is to sustain and survive. They will have sweet and bitter experiences to talk about. And when we all meet one day, we won't be divided with our statuses. We would rather be united to share about each other's lives.

    LIFE ISN'T A RACE

    ©bid

  • bidyaa 7w

    We All Are Flowers

    She blooms merrily in the backyard today,
    As fearless as a wild flower
    Ready to survive the strongest storm,
    That comes to invade her.
    She used to be in one of the pots in the balcony, just some months ago, until a tragedy happened and she had to move out.
    I wake up early just to water them and watch them grow,
    Spreading my gown, I walk between them,
    As if an actress mesmerized by the dazzling spotlight on her.
    I water them, mold them,
    I uproot and throw away all the foreign undergrowth in the pots,
    I drip off the yellowed leaves from them like a mother changing her children's dirty clothes.
    The petals that fall off from them, I tuck in my hair with pride,
    New buds and leaves growing on them every morning,
    Give me a strong satisfaction.
    I sit around them the whole day,
    Eating, drinking, writing, reading, thinking
    And at times,
    Just inhaling all the positive vibes they give me,
    And exhaling the heaviness in my heart.
    This one time, I took all the pots out
    To let them get direct warmth from the sun.
    I manured them, grafted them,
    And as the sun went down, I brought them in.
    It rained heavily that night, followed by strong storm.
    Some dogs ran around my house, doing their nightly howling concert.
    I woke up happy next morning, and went to see the flowers outside.
    But what I saw there, nearly took my breath away.
    There couldn't have been other scenes than this,
    To spoil my entire day
    I had forgotten to bring in the youngest plant
    And now every part of it had scattered badly.
    Just like a person dead in a bombardment.
    I had promised myself to make sure that the flower blooms beautifully,
    The flower must have expected the same from me.
    After all, there was a months for bond between us two.
    For a while I wondered if that's how we shatter,
    When we expect too much from someone
    But the same energy doesn't come back.
    If that's how we break down when we have lived all our life for a dream
    And that doesn't get fulfilled.
    If that's how girls in some countries dream high,
    But marriage proposals come all of a sudden
    Like that storm and marriage band,
    Like the dog's doing their concert,
    And boom! There's nothing she can do about it.
    With tears flowing down,
    I assembled the parts of her and threw it carelessly in a pit in the backyard along with the broken pot
    And guess what happened?
    I found out that a small stem had fallen out of the pit and the flower started to grow twigs, even without manure and water and all those special care that it would have received otherwise.
    It's been months now and she blooms so beautifully,
    That every visitor wants to take a small stem from her,
    Expecting the same beauty.
    I see Malala Yousafzai in that plant today,
    Because it blooms so beautifully despite the hardships,
    The way Malala survived the head shot and became a sensation for millions of girls worldwide.
    And I've realized one thing;
    We all are flowers, some in the balcony and rest in the backyard.

    ©bidyaa

  • bidyaa 8w

    Craving Too Much For Sense

    It's past midnight, and I am struggling since some hours to think of something to construct a poem about. And of the few ideas lurking in my mind, are all wingless. I look out to give myself a break, the faint light from the barn on the other side enters my room. It flickers between the twigs as the wind moves them and with my thoughts. I look down at the ideas, dead on the crumpled pages.
    The pillow, flattened and dead with the weight of my thoughts.
    The stack of old diaries with yellowed and dog-eared pages, evident of the feelings that have faded with its contrast.
    Some of my old clothes looking at me from the closet as if an old stooped woman frustrated by the new normals.
    The stack of books that I've read and met with my own conscience. I thank them for helping me survive.
    On the other side, another stack, untouched. Waiting for me to go and explore them and let myself flow into the melody. I know the amount of pleasure and warmth I can get as I swirl into the essence of those pages. After all, I grew up by the hearth and shores of books on cold and hot days respectively. But I hate my clumsiness. I just look at the unused book on which I had thought of writing poems of unlimited lines. The heights of the unread and unwritten books in stacks, and unused pens explain why I've been feeling blank and unproductive lately.
    I blow the candle that I had lit for fun and notice the wax, nearing it's the end.
    And suddenly a pencil on a paper filled with strikes and strokes attracts me. It has hardly some inches of nip out. Like how an embryo sprouts out of a wrinkled bean seed to produce seeds of its own oneday.
    I once again look out of the window, the light from the other side is no more flickering. Kerosene is over probably. I look down at the crumpled pages with dead and wingless ideas. I pick them up and erase the skies and suddenly, the wings doesn't matter anymore. The ideas can walk miles on road and can be heard and seen. I think of the pencil's nip that can hardly been seen, candle wax that melted down to light the wick, kerosene that exhausted while giving out light in that barn and then my empty brain. Aren't they all same at the end?

    ©bidyaa

  • bidyaa 8w

    Who's That?

    I am the wrinkles and stretchmarks,
    And not beauty anymore.
    I am the messy hair and unfinished chores
    In the kitchen,
    And not the tendered flowers anymore.
    I am not beauty and flowers,
    Maybe a little less or more than them.
    I am the lives that came out of me,
    I am the love that tendered the lives,
    Although, not them entirely.
    I am a muddled soul,
    With indefinite and undefined identites,
    Who inadvertently lost its significance.

    Who's that?
    - A mother

    ©theweirdlady

  • bidyaa 9w

    Nothing in the meadows look magical now.
    The chirps are no more a kind of melody,
    They are just chirps and that's all.
    The daisies no more dance,
    They just move with the wind.
    I just find the dead child in me
    And questions of the lost beauties,
    Etched in the air there.
    Maybe things grew up with me,
    And lost their charms. Or maybe,
    Growing up is all about losing the ability
    To believe in magic?

    ©theweirdlady

  • bidyaa 17w

    @yourbrownbard @harsh77
    #meme

    Don't forget me, I will start writing again soon��

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    Relative's kid: gufilofi fiwjwoq joo mummyyyyy...

    His mom: He just said that he wants to go out and play with you. Would you please take him out for a while?

    ©theweirdlady

  • bidyaa 17w

    But the truth is, it all fades away in the end.

    ©biddya

  • bidyaa 17w

    My heart's been murdered,
    Rigorously by the things it loved.
    And it's now but a dead being,
    Pretending to be alive.

    ©biddya

  • bidyaa 18w

    It's like i am celebrating the day of making no sense.
    I am posting all the senseless stuffs in my draft��

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    For I'm tired of those meaningless races,
    Let me rest
    Pull me not there again,
    In the middle of that same road,
    Force me not to walk there again,
    From where I have with a lot of scars escaped,
    Call me not to that place again,
    Which I have long abandoned,
    For some tales are meant to remain incomplete,
    Let's not flip the pages again...

    ©biddya

  • bidyaa 18w

    Don't play the songs of departure and hook on to the memories, that's not where you are supposed to be.

    ©biddya