fact or fiction
Is it fact or merely fiction? Fact or Fiction explores the myths and beliefs we hold about what makes a good poem and the poetry rules that were made to be broken.
We Laugh So They Don’t Ask
We laugh. Loud. On purpose. On time. So they don’t ask. "Are you okay?" We nod. Before they finish. Because truth takes too long. And no one has time. We send memes. We type “LOL.” But behind the phone silence. Always silence. We post a picture. Eyes bright. Smile wide. But the caption never says, “I almost gave up last night.” It never says, “I’m tired of pretending.” We walk with others. But our mind far away. Thinking. Regretting. Playing battles we already lost. We work. We succeed. And still feel like nothing. Because medals don’t fix what’s inside. We keep busy. Because stopping means thinking. And thinking means falling. So we run. Through days. Through weeks. Through years we barely remember. We smile in family photos. Eat at crowded tables. But no one notices how quiet we’ve become. How we shrink a little more each week. Some nights, we cry quietly. Into pillows. Into silence. Then wipe and sleep. And tomorrow we laugh again. Because that’s what keeps them from asking. And sometimes we wish they would. But we also hope they won’t. Because explaining hurts too much. So we keep laughing. So they don’t ask.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
Days We Don’t Talk About
We wake before light. Alarm. Hunger. Water's cold. Bread is dry. Still, we move. No choice. No pause. We dress for war Not with guns, but silence. Not with armor, but smiles. Outside, the noise starts. Buses scream. Voices clash. Everyone chasing something. Money. Escape. Approval. Air. We pass each other. No eyes. No words. Just steps. Fast ones. Every second feels borrowed. We fake strength well. We say “I’m fine.” We lie. Everyone does. Inside, we break. Not once. Every hour. A bill unpaid. A dream forgotten. A message not sent. But we continue. Because we must. Because weakness isn’t allowed. Tears are for night. Only our pillow knows. We scroll. We compare. Fake smiles. Fake wins. But it stings “Why not me?” We swallow it. Hard. We nod and keep going. Because quitting is louder than crying. Still, some days We breathe too deep. We look at sky. And hope it answers. But clouds just pass. No reply. Only wind. Still, we keep going. We hold on. Not for dreams. But for those who can’t. For little siblings. For old parents. For the ones who believe. Even when we don’t. We live this life Not perfect. Not fair. But real. Ours. So tomorrow, we rise again. Same pain. Same hope. Because somewhere, in all this We still believe. That someday something changes. Even if no one says it We're fighting a life worth surviving.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
The Book of Beginnings
A Journey Through Stories In the sleepy village of Elderglow, where fireflies danced under ancient oaks, stood a bookshop called The Story Haven. Its crooked sign creaked in the breeze, and its windows glowed with golden light, inviting anyone brave enough to step inside. For eleven-year-old Leo, a boy with tousled hair and a knack for losing things, the shop was a treasure chest of wonders. He wasn’t much of a reader—words jumbled in his head like puzzle pieces—but he loved the shop’s dusty shelves and the smell of old paper.
By Shohel Ranaabout a year ago in Poets
When the Streets Forgot My Name
Once I walked Like I belonged. Each step proud, Each breath strong. The city knew The sound I made, The echo sharp Across the blade. Of time and rust And smoky skies, Of hurried feet And fading ties. The lamplight blinked When I passed by. The crows would pause, The dogs would sigh. But now I move Through ghostly air, No glance, no nod Just silent stare. My name once roared From shopfront signs, Now dust has drowned Their weathered lines. I tap the stone, It does not ring. The ground forgets It once had spring. I see a child Run past with glee. A shadow laughs But it's not me. I try to speak, My voice too dry. A whisper lost Beneath the sky. I wait for dawn But dusk repeats. My echo’s gone From all the streets. So tell the world Before I go: A name erased Still leaves a glow.
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
Metal Knows No Mercy
Big boots stomp echoing steel walls each step loud like war drums he came back not for peace but for answers and final closure rusty doors screeched like tortured voices as memories returned with each breath he knew pain like old friends it greeted him with cold hands blood once spilled in this place not forgotten yet nor forgiven truly eyes like blades cut through dust finding the truth buried in silence brother betrayed brother for nothing gained just hollow pride and broken dreams he remembered screams not from enemies but from within the steel heart his fists clenched not to fight but to feel what’s left behind walls still whispered what men buried shadows still moved like distant ghosts he lit fire not to burn but to cleanse what stayed cursed footsteps returned again not his alone others had come to finish stories some for revenge some for redemption some to bleed until silence wins he faced them no fear now just cold resolve and bitter breath steel met flesh but he stood like rusted iron strong from scars time slipped away with each clash but he stood until last breath they fell down one by one some cursed him some thanked him when sun rose he was gone but door remained still stained red those who come hear only echoes not his name but his silence they called it the place forgotten but metal knows and metal remembers because pain speaks when all die and justice sleeps beneath steel bones he left nothing but one line scratched in metal "no mercy given."
By Hazrat Usman Usmanabout a year ago in Poets
