Friendship

Love Letters I Never Sent
Love Letters I Never Sent ✒️ By Ali Asad Ullah I wrote you letters you’ll never see, Folded like secrets, inked carefully.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Poets
The Whispering Star
The Whispering Star (Gothic Narrative Style) In midnight’s grasp beyond the sphere, Where silence thrived and none could hear, A single star began to wake— Its gleam a wound the void did make. Not born from light nor heaven’s flame, No angel knew it, spoke its name. It shimmered cold, a haunted spark, A pulse that moved through endless dark. The wise-men turned their eyes in dread, For ancient texts had once half-said: “A star shall rise with voice of none, And speak in silence what’s undone.” Its shimmer flickered Morse-like screams— A stuttered code that shattered dreams. It watched. It waited. Never slept. It fed on thoughts the dreamers kept. A scholar traced its silent arc, Then vanished in the moonless dark. His notes remained, with scribbled fears: “It knows my mind. It whispered near.” A girl would wake with hollow eyes, Draw towers crumbled in the skies. She whispered words in tongues long dead: "The star has thoughts it hasn’t said." It moved against all cosmic law, No orbit held, no force could draw. Some said it crawled where time was torn— A beast disguised in stellar form. Its watchers faded one by one, Each stared too long, then came undone. And on each wall where eyes had bled, That star was drawn in streaks of red. Then came the night it ceased to burn— The blackest void, no light’s return. But in that dark, we heard a sound— A whisper deep beneath the ground. Now every child dreams the same, A voice that softly speaks their name. And somewhere, just beyond the bar, It waits… that ancient, whispering star.
By Ali Asad Ullahabout a year ago in Poets
Two Hearts, One Home
Two Hearts, One Home Chapter 1: The Empty House The old cottage at the end of Maplewood Lane had been empty for years. Its whitewash was peeling, the garden was overgrown, and the wooden porch was cracked from the sheer weight. But when Daniel first saw it, he didn’t see decay – he saw a future.
By MR SAMIMabout a year ago in Poets
Whiskers and Wags: An Unlikely Friendship
Whiskers and Wags: An Unlikely Friendship How a curious cat and a clumsy pup turned rivalry into loyalty. In the quiet town of Maplewood, nestled between golden meadows and leafy trees, lived a cat named Whiskers. Sleek, orange, and proud, Whiskers ruled the neighborhood from the comfort of his sunny windowsill. He had everything a cat could want: a warm home, his favorite tuna treats, and the undivided attention of Mrs. Plum, his doting owner. Whiskers loved his peace and quiet. He spent his days napping, grooming, and occasionally chasing a butterfly or two when the mood struck. Life was perfect — until he arrived. His name was Wags. A clumsy, oversized, floppy-eared puppy with paws too big for his legs and energy that never seemed to end. He belonged to Mr. Thompson next door, who had recently retired and decided it was time for “a little canine company.” From the moment Wags moved in, Whiskers’ peaceful life turned upside down. On the first day, Wags barked at every bird in the yard. He ran in circles chasing his tail, knocked over two potted plants, and even tried to “play” with Whiskers by jumping over the fence and landing with a loud thud right beside the cat’s favorite nap spot. Whiskers, horrified and offended, puffed up like a furball and darted inside with a dramatic hiss. “He’s ruining everything,” Whiskers sulked as he watched the chaos from the window. But Wags didn’t mean harm. He was just young, excited, and lonely. Every time he saw Whiskers, his tail would wag wildly — hence his name. He barked happily and tried to play, only to be met with glares, growls, and an occasional swat on the nose. Days turned into weeks. Wags never gave up. Whiskers never gave in. One stormy afternoon, as thunder cracked across the sky and rain poured in sheets, Whiskers was outside when the backdoor accidentally slammed shut behind him. He darted under a bush, soaked and shivering, too proud to meow for help. Just then, he heard that familiar panting. Wags. The dog had snuck out of his own house and was standing in the rain, looking at Whiskers with worried eyes. Without hesitation, Wags trotted over and crouched beside him, shielding the cat with his big, floppy body. The warmth surprised Whiskers, but he didn’t move. He let Wags stay. They sat that way until the storm passed. When Mrs. Plum found them curled up together under the bush, she couldn't believe her eyes. From that day forward, something changed. Whiskers no longer ran away when Wags approached. He tolerated the barks, the tail-wagging, even the awkward, slobbery attempts at play. In fact, he started joining in — from a distance at first, then with genuine curiosity. Wags, in turn, learned to calm down. He watched how Whiskers moved, how he paused before pouncing, how he stretched under the sun. He started mimicking the cat’s slower, more graceful pace — well, as gracefully as a clumsy pup could manage. One afternoon, they were found napping together in the backyard. Whiskers’ tail draped gently over Wags’ nose, and Wags snoring softly with a paw protectively over the cat. From that moment on, they were inseparable. They explored the garden together, chased butterflies, and even teamed up to steal treats from the kitchen (Wags distracted, Whiskers jumped). The neighbors called them “the odd couple,” and everyone in Maplewood smiled a little brighter when they saw the two together. Their friendship wasn’t perfect. Wags still barked too loudly sometimes. Whiskers still rolled his eyes and occasionally walked off with exaggerated dignity. But when it mattered — like the time a fox sneaked into the backyard or when Wags got sick for a week — they were there for each other. One had claws. The other had paws. One liked silence. The other loved sound. But they shared something deeper — loyalty, warmth, and the kind of bond only true friends understand. In the end, Whiskers and Wags didn’t just learn to get along. They taught everyone around them that friendship doesn’t depend on being the same. Sometimes, it’s the differences that make the connection stronger. And so, under the golden skies of Maplewood, the cat and the dog who were never meant to be friends — became the best of them.
By MR SAMIMabout a year ago in Poets
When Love Turned to Madness: The Tale of Laila and Majnu
When Love Turned to Madness: The Tale of Laila and Majnu A Love So Pure, It Drove Him Mad and Made Her Eternal Long ago, in the golden sands of Arabia, where the winds whispered secrets and the stars guarded ancient dreams, two souls were born to meet — and to be torn apart. He was Qays, the son of a noble man. Intelligent, kind, and poetic, his heart was more alive than most. She was Laila, a girl of unmatched beauty and grace. Their eyes met in the halls of their childhood school, and the world around them softened. What started as quiet glances soon grew into deep affection. With every poem Qays wrote, he poured more of his soul into his love for Laila. But in their world, love was not a game — it was a risk. Honor was law, and reputation could shatter families. The more Qays loved her, the more his mind filled with verses and dreams. He became known for his obsession, wandering the streets and deserts, whispering Laila’s name like a sacred prayer. People began calling him Majnu — "the madman." Laila loved him too — deeply and silently. Her heart belonged to Majnu, but her fate was not hers to decide. Her father, ashamed of her name being whispered alongside a mad poet’s, forbade their love. He arranged her marriage to a wealthy man from another tribe. Laila cried, protested, but her voice was lost behind the veil of tradition. When Majnu heard the news, he broke. He did not scream, he did not curse — he simply walked into the desert. His heart shattered, but he held onto her memory like a lifeline. He lived among wild animals, fed by kind strangers, often scribbling poems in the sand that vanished with the wind. People feared him, pitied him, but none could understand the fire inside him. Laila, trapped in a loveless marriage, spent her days in silence. Her body may have belonged to another, but her soul remained with Majnu. She would hear tales of a madman who roamed the dunes, reciting her name to the stars. Every whisper of his name was a dagger to her heart. Over time, grief and longing consumed her. She grew ill — not of the body, but of the soul. And then, one silent night, her heart gave up the battle. She died with Majnu’s name on her lips. When the news reached Majnu, he fell to his knees. He made the long journey to her grave, barefoot and exhausted. He sat by the mound of earth, whispered poems into the wind, and laid his head beside her resting place. And there, without tears, without sound, he closed his eyes — and never opened them again. They say the desert bloomed that night. Flowers grew around her grave, and a cool breeze danced through the dunes, as if the earth itself mourned their fate. Some believe their souls reunited in another world — free from rules, free from judgment, free to love. 🌹 Their Love Lives On… Laila and Majnu never got their happy ending in life, but their story became immortal. Poets, singers, and lovers across centuries have kept their names alive. Not because they were perfect — but because their love was real. So deep, so selfless, so consuming, that even death could not silence it. They remind us that true love doesn’t always wear a crown of roses. Sometimes, it’s made of sacrifice, madness, and pain. But even in tragedy, it shines — bright enough to echo through time. So when you hear the wind whispering in the desert or see two stars dancing far apart in the night sky, know this: Laila and Majnu are still telling their story. And love, even in madness, remains eternal.
By MR SAMIMabout a year ago in Poets
My Mother-In-Law's Last Words Unlocked a Secret That Changed My Marriage Forever
My Mother-In-Law's Last Words Unlocked a Secret That Changed My Marriage Forever We weren’t exactly close, my mother-in-law and I. She was polite, formal, even warm at times—but never affectionate. She kept her distance, and over the years, I stopped trying to bridge the gap. My husband, David, never pushed it. That’s just how she is, he’d say. She’s been through things. I didn’t press. Everyone has baggage. But nothing could’ve prepared me for what she said to me in her final moments. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the truth she carried for decades. A truth that would flip my entire marriage on its head. It started with a phone call. David had been at her bedside for two days straight. When I arrived at the hospital that evening, he looked worn, like someone holding back a flood of emotion. He gave me a weak smile and said, She’s asking for you. For me? I walked into the dim room, the beeping machines making everything feel heavy. There she was—frail, pale, and barely able to lift her hand. Her eyes met mine, and I saw something different that night. Not coldness. Not distance. Something raw. Urgent. She took a shaky breath and whispered, Close the door. I did. She motioned for me to come closer. I don’t have much time, she said. And there’s something you need to know before I go. I knelt beside her. My heart raced. Was it a family secret? An apology? A confession? I wasn’t always distant because I didn’t like you, she began. It was because you reminded me too much of her. Her? I asked. She nodded slowly. David’s first wife. My body stiffened. But… I’m his only wife. She smiled weakly. No, sweetheart. You’re his only legal wife. But not his first love. I sat back, stunned. I didn’t know what to say. She continued. Her name was Emily. They were inseparable in college. Madly in love. Planned to marry right after graduation. But Emily was diagnosed with leukemia. She didn’t have long. And she didn’t want David to suffer. Tears welled in her eyes. She left. Quietly. Never told him she was sick. Just disappeared. He was heartbroken. He drank. He shut himself off. And then he met you. I felt dizzy. I had heard whispers of a bad breakup, a dark period" before we met. But David had never mentioned a name. Never said how deep it went. He never knew the truth until five years ago, she said. I told him. After she died. Why didn’t he tell me? I asked, barely able to breathe. Because he didn’t want to lose you. He thought the truth would make you feel like second place. But you weren’t. You aren’t. You gave him something Emily never could—hope. A future. I stared at her, stunned. My marriage wasn’t a lie… but it had roots I never knew existed. She reached under the pillow with trembling fingers and handed me a folded, yellowed letter. This is from Emily. She asked me to give it to you when the time was right. I hesitated, but opened it. It was dated three months before her death. The handwriting was elegant and soft. If you’re reading this, I’m gone. And you’re probably wondering why a ghost from David’s past is writing to you. But I want you to know this—I loved him. Deeply. But I left because he deserved a life, a real one. And you gave it to him. I watched from afar, quietly, and saw the man I loved become whole again. Thank you. Don’t let my memory cast a shadow. Let it be light. I gave him up… so he could find you. By the end of the letter, my hands were shaking. My heart was torn between grief, awe, and something like gratitude. When I looked back up, my mother-in-law was gone. Her hand still in mine, but her chest still. Her last gift wasn’t just the truth—it was freedom. Freedom from suspicion, insecurity, and the unspoken silence that had hung over our relationship. That night, I sat beside David, holding his hand, the letter in my lap. I didn’t say anything at first. Just leaned my head on his shoulder. I know, he whispered. You should’ve told me. I was scared, he said. Scared that knowing would change how you saw me. It doesn’t, I replied. “But it changes how I see us. He turned to me, eyes red. “Do you still trust me?” I nodded. Now more than ever. Because sometimes, the past doesn’t come back to haunt you. Sometimes, it comes back to show you how far you’ve come… and how strong your love truly is.
By MR SAMIMabout a year ago in Poets
The Boy Next Door Wasn’t Who I Thought
When we moved to Hazelwood Lane, it felt like a new beginning. A quiet suburb, neatly trimmed hedges, friendly neighbors who smiled just the right amount. Nothing too loud, nothing too strange. Perfect — or so I thought. Our new house sat beside an old Victorian-style home with ivy climbing the walls. That’s where Eli lived — the boy next door. He was tall, quiet, and always alone. He never came to the neighborhood barbecues, never waved when we passed. But sometimes I’d catch him watching from the upstairs window, as if he was trying to be part of a world he couldn’t touch. Naturally, I was curious. My name is Lena, and I’ve always had a habit of noticing things. Little things. Like how Eli always wore long sleeves, even in summer. How he walked the same path to the woods behind our houses every night at 11 PM — sharp. How he never turned on any lights in his house. One night, I couldn't sleep. I looked out my window and, like always, Eli stepped out of his back door, flashlight in hand, and disappeared into the woods. But this time, he carried something heavy — wrapped in cloth and tied with rope. My heart raced. Curiosity burned. So, like any foolish teenager in a small-town mystery, I followed him. I slipped on a hoodie, grabbed a flashlight, and tiptoed through the backyard. The cold grass wet against my bare feet, the night thick with the scent of pine and something else — metallic. I followed the trail until I saw him, standing in a small clearing, the moon casting silver light over him. He was kneeling beside what looked like... a box. He opened it slowly, carefully, revealing jars. Lots of them. Some were filled with glowing liquid. Others held things that moved. I stepped on a twig. He turned fast — eyes locking onto mine. I froze. Lena? he whispered, like he already knew my name. How do you— You shouldn’t be here,” he said firmly. It’s not safe. What is this? I asked, nodding toward the strange collection. He sighed. You wouldn’t believe me. Try me. And that’s when he told me. Eli wasn’t just some antisocial guy hiding from the world. He was part of something larger. His parents were scientists who went missing during a secret government experiment — something to do with opening a “frequency door” to another dimension. Since then, strange objects had started appearing in our town — sometimes dangerous, sometimes alive. Eli was trying to contain them. The jars were vessels. Each one a trap for something that didn't belong in our world. He showed me one — a jar that throbbed with a soft blue light. Inside, a floating eye blinked slowly, watching us both. What happens if they get out? I asked, breathless. They spread. They infect memories, time, maybe even people. Suddenly, a rustle behind us. Eli grabbed my arm. Run. We sprinted through the trees, the sound of something chasing us — not quite footsteps, not quite animal. I didn’t dare look back. When we burst into my backyard, Eli shut the gate, breathing hard. “That wasn’t supposed to be loose. It followed you. Me? I gasped. You’re connected now. It saw you. The next morning, everything looked normal again. My mom asked if I had slept well. I didn’t answer. That night, I found Eli waiting by the fence. I need your help, he said quietly. You’ve seen too much, and now it’s after you. But if we work together, we might be able to stop it — for good. I hesitated. I was just a girl who liked books and late-night snacks, not monster-hunters or sci-fi missions. But something in his eyes — not fear, but responsibility — made me nod. Over the next few weeks, we worked in secret. We tracked strange weather changes, listened to static radio waves, and mapped sightings of strange creatures. Eli showed me how to make protective salt circles, how to hide thoughts, how to stay unnoticed. It wasn’t just about surviving anymore. It was about protecting others. Eventually, we caught the one that had followed me — a shadow creature that fed on guilt. We lured it with memories and trapped it in a mirrored jar. That night, when we sealed it, Eli looked at me and smiled — really smiled — for the first time. You saved me, he said. No, I replied. You just let me in. Now, when I look at the boy next door, I don’t see a mystery. I see a teammate. A protector. A secret world beneath the quiet streets — and a bond no one else could ever understand. And to think, I almost never looked out my window.
By MR SAMIMabout a year ago in Poets
Perched Upon A Wooden Log
Perched upon a wooden log, The young girl sat, back straight and still as fog. Her thoughts were wrapped in clouds of sorrow,
By Luciousabout a year ago in Poets
I Was Born to Be Me, And Free
I Was Born to Be Me, And Free I was, I was born to be me not shaped by your hands not bent at the knee I was, I was born to be free
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk about a year ago in Poets
Where did every one
Where Did Everyone Go?Lyrics by Eng. Ali SadeekRegret is whispering in my soulI gave my all, I played my roleWrote the songs, I shaped the linesHoping love would somehow shineI reached for hearts with open handsPlanted roses in the sandsBroke down walls to let light inCrossed the borders deep withinBut where did everyone go?Why am I standing alone?I gave you words, I gave you dreamsNow silence drowns my every themeIs this the truth of how we live?Take what we want, forget to give?Was all my care just thrown away?A song that no one wants to play...I wrote to lift, to make you feelBut pain is all that feels so realMy thoughts, they echo in the darkNo one replies, not even a sparkStill I remain, a soul so pureNot like the devils you endureI stand for peace, for honest loveFor every wound, a healing doveSo wake up now, my sleeping friendsIt’s not too late to make amendsThere is a door, still open wideWhere love can rise... and hate can hide
By Ali Sadeek Ahmedabout a year ago in Poets
you are the exact poem i wanted to write
you are the exact poem i wanted to write—the one that haunted the edges of my thoughts long before i ever knew you existed. you were the metaphor i could never quite pin down, the verse that slipped through my fingers every time i tried to hold it. for years, i wrote half-finished lines, hoping one day they would make sense, that they would lead me to something real. and then there you were, a poem walking in flesh, breathing life into words i never thought i’d understand. poets speak of the ineffable, of things that cannot be named. “love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.” — rilke and maybe that’s what you are to me — the meeting place of my solitude and yours, the point where the vastness of longing finally finds its answer. you are not a mere collection of words; you are the space between them, the silence that makes the music of language possible. there are days when i feel like all the poets in history conspired to prepare me for you. neruda's odes, rumi's aching devotion, even whitman’s celebration of the self—they all seem to echo the truth of you. rumi wrote, “you were born with wings, why prefer to crawl through life?” and i think of you as a creature with wings, boundless and infinite, uncontainable in a world that tries so hard to define everything. i have tried to write you, to contain you within the lines of my paper heart. i’ve scribbled your name into the margins of notebooks, built temples of words in your honor, crafted sentences that I hoped might somehow do you justice. but the truth is, you are beyond my grasp. you are not just a poem; you are the poem—the one every poet dreams of writing but knows they never truly can. yet, in the impossibility of it, there is a beauty. you remind me that poetry is not about capturing perfection; it is about surrendering to the infinite, to the unnameable. you are the poem that refuses to end, the verse that bleeds into the next page, the line that leaves me breathless. and maybe that’s the point. maybe you aren’t meant to be finished or fully understood. maybe you are meant to remain infinite in my eyes, a testament to the kind of beauty that can never be owned, only witnessed. but here i am, writing anyway, knowing it will never be enough. because you are not just the poem i wanted to write—you are the one i will spend the rest of my life trying to.
By khalidabout a year ago in Poets
I just need a rest
I just need a rest. Don't think too badly that I'm not here. I'm trying my best. There's nothing wrong and nothing to fear.
By Rachel Deemingabout a year ago in Poets