writertalks - Vanshika Singh
Vanshika Singh

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

223 posts

I Do Not Know If It Counts -outside Of Tumblr- The Mental Struggle That I Face Everyday. The Constant

I do not know if it counts -outside of tumblr- the mental struggle that I face everyday. The constant fight between the force to race and the force to live. I am not able to do these two simultaneously- race and live. Does this make me weaker than the rest? Or everyone has their own personal battlefields where they put up a strong face while crumpling within.

  • proximuss
    proximuss liked this · 11 months ago
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More Posts from Writertalks

11 months ago

They said I won't fit here being the person I am. I decided to change things. Now I own a corner where I not only fit, but happily live.


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11 months ago

People often have callous ways to talk to us- even the ones who we are pretty much attached to. That is one issue. Another one is that we are expected to take all the callousness, rudeness and harsh treatment as a joke because they don't mean it. And if we allow ourselves to feel hurt, we are not cool enough. Being cool means laughing at things that should be scoffed at. Is it?!?

I need it viciously- for people to draw clear bold lines about jokes and seriousness. You don't get to joke about my insecurities. You don't get to call me mean things. You don't get to make me feel like an unimportant unworthy piece of ruin who deserves anything but kindness. Sorry, I don't approve.


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1 year ago

It's been raining all day. I'm not old yet but I'm not young either- stranded in a limbo of young adult. All my friends are cities away, and I'm wondering who I am. My friends are photos and texts. My friends are video calls on Friday nights, most anyways. My friends are one call away but my bones remember the miles between us, hundreds- even thousands. I'm not old yet, but my shoulders bear the weight of countless goodbyes. I'm not young either. I can place a call but I stare at the rain. I can send a text but I write a stupid poem.

-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned