writertalks - Vanshika Singh
Vanshika Singh

I am my own words, my own poem and my own story.

223 posts

On That Wide Endless Highway,

On that wide endless highway,

and barren, unknown land,

a tattered, bruised, broken soul,

Offered me his hand.

For once, I thought I am the savior,

to take him away to a sea,

But whoever he was waiting for,

I realised it wasn't me.

Sometimes we are just carriers,

to fetch and drop people off,

So when we learn we were used,

I believe, there's nothing to hate or scoff.

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More Posts from Writertalks

3 years ago

I was once told, that when someone leaves one place to reach another, it is our collective responsibility to make sure they leave in peace because journeys are the best and worst phases of our lives. Journeys are filled with uncertainties, people are alone, ways are haphazard, accident prone and there is high probability of them getting lost. Both literally and metaphorically. So, while it is not possible for us to accompany everyone in their journey, it is definitely feasible to make sure they leave with a smile.


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3 years ago

Argue with me over the beauty of old pictures. I find nothing more beautiful than those still evidences of moments, that hold so much story behind. They don't just capture scenes, but also the warmth the hearts held while someone smiled huge at the camera. The fact that when you look at them now, you feel the same emotions you did while those pictures were captured. Like a virtual time travel, that needs no complicated technology.


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3 years ago

Growth looks so beautiful on all of us. I wonder if it is even true that people change for the worse. I see no concept of bad growth. We all rise from the mud, and slowly and steadily it sheds off from our bodies, no matter how less we try to remove it.

Growth Looks So Beautiful On All Of Us. I Wonder If It Is Even True That People Change For The Worse.

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3 years ago

It's a four walled structure standing tall, and unpainted. I have a marker in my hand, and write each and every name that enters through that single door. Some names, big, highlighted, underlined. Some names, small, insignificant and dull. Each name though makes its place on the walls. But it is a canvas for the name, not the home to name bearers. It is my place to grow, with my walls covered with influences from a variety, not their overwhelming presence inside.


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3 years ago

I resist crying before anyone, not because I fear it shows them my vulnerable side and that they'd manage to develop a hold on me. But because crying my heart out, will depict me, in my rawest form. The form that my mother witnessed when I was a kid, and turned to her to complain of the world. The form that my father witnessed when he disciplined me after I rebelled. It was a luxury I gave them- a right over me. They deserved to see me that way, and never once have I regretted crying before them, even if it was for the dumbest reason ever! Do we find such energy in people now? To love our rawest form, and never contemplate over the rationality of our actions?


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