Writer's own thoughts!

Yah, I miss your smile but you are toxic for me and not right,  You were a wrong alley for me to ride,   You were just a spy,  But, I thought you as my 'Ikigai',  You are filled with vengeance,  And, I was filled with love and laughter,  But, you burnt my smile. I hoped you were an air-balloon,  We could fly,  But, you were a raccoon,  Whom I thought as a boon,  You hid a spike in your attire to attack.  Love is not easy, it never was,  But, I did the impossible by loving you,  Staying is not easy though, but I stayed long-long  enough just to realize the truth!  You were a fancy lie that I took faith in,  You were a fantasy mixed with ecstasy whom I  wanted make classy with my sassy sharp comments, but you would never commence the growth!   You are frozen and still, always on the same lethal ramp, you are the same rampant sniper who shot me thrice in the weekends!  I thought you wou...

  My  love was at the purest form, While your love was a 'phony', In the epitome of desire and belongingness,  Memoir of residence with you was completely 'unholy'! Shall I count every ounce of love that I poured on you?! Immense it was and vast like ocean! Countless and immeasurable was the infatuation!  I was affected by you in a bond of affection,  But, you were lethargic like an infection!  Spread all over my life- I've spilled my love on the bay!  Wasted my love cause you never were meant to stay!  The prowess of anger overshadowed the essence of love that we had,  The innocuous emotions were lost in egyptian pyramids like ancient time!  Now, what we see is a skeleton of love,  Dried and damaged buried in the berg!  ©® Farheen Bhuiyan Nancy 24 Feb, 2023  Rokeya Hall, DU

I was standing on the brink of montage, but, you always end up bringing upon a sabotage! I overcame the holocaust,  But, you reminded me the ordeal  Over and over again.  You were meant to be my better-half,  But, all you did was break me into pieces  And, damage the repairs, You had always been a threat I had to tolerate!  I see an end of an ordeal but not the end of the reminisces!  ©® Farheen Bhuiyan Nancy 24 Feb, 2023

  Love was a priority then,  Happiness was destiny,  But, now love is not predestined,  Sometimes its a mistake.  But, mistakes that make you stronger, Dude, let's not regret!  Its better to move on alone rather than moving in the circles!  ©® Farheen Bhuiyan Nancy 24 Feb, 2023 Rokeya Hall, DU

 You were not my love,  You were merely just an addiction,  Talking with you over phone,  Fighting over petty issues,  Non-stop arguments again and again,  Scratching each others faces till the bruises tears the flesh, we didn’t ever stop,  We didn’t mingle. We never console each other but multiplied our pain and anguish! Oh, you were just a bad habit I had to bear!  For a long duration, this habit became an addiction, Like a heroin you are now cutting my throat in thirst of despair!  ©® Farheen Bhuiyan Nancy 24 Feb, 2023 Rokeya Hall, DU.

 It was nice to know you,  A pleasure to meet you,  Sweet to have a kiss with you,  But, horrendous to know the depths of you!  Terrifying to see your mask fall off and equally  disturbing to encounter your thoughts!  Such an inhumane brute you are!  You only knew terror, fright and wore a controlling demeanor, you didn’t know how to melt the hearts that once raced for you!  A fairy tale turned into a horror movie broadcast! ©® Farheen Bhuiyan Nancy

Faulty stars in sky leading to a faulty love story- well, stars were not deformed, It was our own fault- lack of apprehension of the situations,  Shortage of endurance and lack of understanding makes us fall,  We fell from the heights that we claim to own.  Faulty stars are twinkling again- leading to a new destination,  This time the moral of the story is- A true emancipation!  ©® Farheen Bhuiyan Nancy Feb 24, 2034, Rokeya Hall, DU.

If you eat all alone, Roam and vibe alone.  And, you share nothing with anyone, No excitement, no happiness— How is your day spent, or what else do you do with none -  Then what do you name it? Detachment, or apathy? Solitude or loneliness? Is it strength labeled as empowerment? Silk draped in a cotton handkerchief?  Is it discipline simmered in silence? Or is it a famine no one photographs— A drought that happens in the middle of abundance? I sit with my own shadow as if it were a loyal guest in my shrine, Here, the fork and spoon dance with my mood The echo answers back with my devour. There is no witness to my hunger except the walls— and even they are tired of holding up my composure. Solid yet sometimes brittle, Layered into sediments of memoirs and longings for a future yet to be seen, Or a beloved yet to be held close.  They say independence tastes like iron— like blood bitten back from the lip. They say a woman alone at her table is evolution, is progress, Is...

  I want to escape from the prison of my mind  that keeps playing your name ... As a background song, Your shadows keep lingering in my thoughts. I thought I buried you in the cemetery of my heart, But, no, you always resurrect and  I am slowly losing the strength to fight with the spirit  of your memories—good and bad,  Will I ever escape from the prison that you've built in my mind? You are nowhere, yet you remain present when I close my eyes in the night, I can still feel your close grip around my waist,  Your arms surrounding me. Why does the world get shredded into pieces?  The home disowned that we've built brick by brick, I can feel the ghosts of your memories screaming, Will I ever find peace? Won't you set me free? Your thoughts keep haunting me every night.  This is not a dream,  And I cannot wake up from that dream. Please let me move on. Set me free.  ©® Farheen Akter Bhuian Nancy  Time Frame: 12.45 am, 20.2.26

I thought I buried everything alive inside the graveyard of my heart, But the ghosts of my emotions come back haunting me with their shadows  that I deemed too shallow—I overcame. Did I? The ghosts of my feelings are haunting me. I am running; I am a derby horse—running from everything from everywhere.... Speeding, running through and throughout everything  so that nothing can bind me ever like you did, I am running—ruining the shadows. I am running through and throughout. Still, it seems I can't make it anymore! Ghosts of my shadows linger with every breath I take. I am too scared to admit that your face haunts me as if nothing ever happened, Everything is alright; nothing changed. The shadows of the ghosts inside my mind keep replaying your pretty face in a loop. I am running—running far away from your shadows. The paths we have taken will be abolished. But how to stop the replay in my mind? The more I dig deep into the graveyard, I see the skeletons of our memories— Still f...

When do one outgrow any situation?  Well, when two people no longer understand each other's language. But, once they used to speak the same codewords, now the pattern changes with the situations,  When role is shifted- the dialect and the tone gets authoritarian,  Fascist of a kind,  Suffocated!   Till death do apart us becomes a myth when real death occurs - death of the soul that once used to love inhibitedly,  Unnecessarily extraorbitant. The rules are never formed to be broken, The orbits too do not change their pathways,  Nor does the satellites stops their fixed performance.  It was only you who shifted his fluid identity with translucent primal urges.  ©® Farheen Akter Bhuian Nancy  Time Frame: 11.1 am, 14.02.26

  I am not a monument. My identity is not fixed nor can it be traded, Not marble-veined certainty ingrained in castles, Not star-lit venomous ceiling but standing upright against inherited light, Not the single spine of a history that names itself universal but relational, Within me history dissolves and uprisings rise. I am undergrowth, I am the root, not the terrace, I am the underground root that refuses geometry, Threading sideways through damp soil, Borrowing breath from leaves I did not grow, feeding on what feeds on me. But, somehow outgrew those who fed on me. They told me the body is a border— Skin a nation, Desire as discipline, Gender as a corridor with two doors and a guard at each end who needs an attorney to speak for themselves, But my body is a crossroad, a trigonometry, a memoir. It spills past instruction. It learns new grammar in hindsight, It learns a new language in solitude, It speaks a new dialect in turbulent times when resilience becomes armor, It writes a ...

Even the colossal is emptied with the reign of heavy time, But, once it has lent bribe in her prime to silence the voice of lambs perished in the peril of pariah,  Of evil storms—unhinged in the chaos, unheard of in the outskirts,  Survives the drowning at the cost of bulky memories filled with blisters of hurt and outgrowing. Decay or slow rupture? Erasure of ego with the advent of rage, of savage time. Softening of the voice and trembling of the threatened throat  that once roared epic pilgrimage, You don't need to pick every cue from the colossal; It is deemed to be soiled into dust and ashes... Until then, you see the fray, The cost of being abruptly massive and subtly lessened. Colossal in rage and wrath, now wishes to be cuddled!  If not, then at least remembered, That once wanted to dismember every amber, Now, intend to stitch woolcraft from scratch and draw sketches -  Of a veneer moth flamed until it turned into livestock and a funneled vessel,  A ...

 We frame vulnerability as love,  And, then romanticize it with labels and colors, We become more vulnerable day by day in the process of love,  Remaining unaware that love is immunized in itself from the weakness of the beloved, Just like a lamb quieten in love,  Do you call it peace or abandonment of self in loving another?!  I'll call it 'Loss of a limb' while building the other! Reason for another vulnerability?!  Your beloved make you fragile and vulnerable, Yet, sometimes it is beautiful.  Beautiful until you feel trapped and helpless,  Until you lose yourself in loving another! ©® Farheen Akter Bhuian  Time Frame: 6.48 pm, Tagar, MIST

  They do not know my name, yet they speak it inwardly as if repetition could convert exposure into permission. As if watching long enough—scrolling, lingering, memorizing the tilt of a smile rendered pixel by pixel—could justify digital stalking dressed up as affection, A devotion that mistakes access for intimacy and observation for reciprocity. In this architecture of screens, digital obsession grows quietly, not with the violence of intrusion but with the persistence of attention. The kind that never knocks yet feels entitled to entry, The kind that believes every posted fragment is an invitation rather than a remainder, Left deliberately incomplete. Here, online entitlement does not announce itself as a threat; It arrives politely, disguised as concern, admiration, curiosity— Why did you disappear? Why did you not post today? Why did you not respond— Questions that assume my availability as a public utility, My silence as a breach of contract. What they consume is not me, ...

  I do not vanish from the world;  I learn instead the older art of appearing partially. The way dusk offers light without confession, The way water reflects a face yet refuses to keep it. I allow the morning to speak through a cup warming my palms, Through a window rehearsing the sky, But I withhold the coordinates of my breath, Because some selves, once rendered in full resolution, Are never returned to their original owners. The eye of the machine asks for clarity, symmetry, and obedience— It wants my face as data, my hours as pattern,  My silence as consent— So I answer with angles, with cropped horizons,  With hands that hold language instead of evidence, With shadows trained to mean presence without surrender. What they call sharing, I rename selection; What they call access, I dilute into fragments. Enough warmth to remain legible, Never enough exposure to be consumed and overtly visible. My life continues to pulse online, yes, but behind a membrane woven of c...

When the dawn shifts to dusk and everything is quiet on the frontier, Ask yourself if it is necessary to burn like the sunlight in the misty morning. In the dew—you get wet without any signs of overpowering  heavy rain, Without any reason. Ask yourself if you need to show each and every parts of yourself to the world that doesn't care, That doesn't care about your well-being, Your life, visions and contributions, Or, your emotions. All the social goods that you do for people while you are simply breathing, Your simple existence had made so many differences, But, people do not care, The world doesn't care how much it took from you, Your smile, Your passion,  Your strength, your happiness. Ask yourself when you don't feel the urge to connect or showcase anything to the world, Would you live or act the same? How many people are you connecting with, actually by exposing yourself? People only admires the exterior, They don't see the grind nor the loneliness, People only ...

Once a blonde girl sang song by the seashore, Now, she writes dark lyrics for the gone people, Once she was into white and black spectrum, She wore royal navy blue. Now she wears colors of hue. Those were the color of hurdles that were put on her, She was chained to her death in the death-chamber, Amber like her cheeks were fainted pale in the cruelty of cold winter. She stays between the greys now, declining all the binaries. Nothing is too bad; nothing is too good. But can love be relative? Or, is it eternal? The wounds are eternal for sure. But, what about the subconscious  memories that lie beneath the surface  like an undercurrent in the deep blue sea?! She once wore blue, Now she herself became a tragic deep sea. An ocean of blue grief passes in her body like never ending currents, She does not know where the shore is. She keeps surfing. Surfing in the deep blue ocean of grief. Grief does not knock. It arranges itself beneath the floorboards of breath. Folded carefully, ...

  The handpicked flower doesn’t know it has died.... it still leans into the warmth of a borrowed palm, still believes the sky is close, that thirst is only a pause before rain. Its fragrance keeps speaking, long after the stem has forgotten its roots, long after the soil has closed its mouth and refuses to answer. Petals rehearse memory, not loss.... they soften, they bruise, they fall without ever naming the violence that called it love. If death is distance, then the flower is innocent: it does not measure absence, It does not recognize abuse, it does not accuse the hand. It only fades, thinking this quiet allure is rest. Thinking this dusky mist is blessed. ©® Farheen Akter Bhuian Nancy  Time Frame: 8 am, Morning, Tea, Officer's mess