How Is It That Each Time We Fall In Life We Seek Someone Else In The Same Condition To Console Our Inner

Keep kissing me with your lips, embracing me with your arms and crushing me with your thighs until I eventually melt and start flowing through your veins.

Shayan Das

Acrostic: The first letters of each line read vertically downwards spell out my mother's name.

Would you rather loose your ability to write or your ability to see?

And here comes one, an ineluctably lethal 'would you rather' question. Tbh, at one moment I thought of leaving this question to corrode in one corner of the mailbox but anyways here we go. Well, frankly speaking, it depends. But for time being, if there are no other options available I'd go for losing the ability to write (well, I guess it doesn't mean losing the ability to read as well) 'cause losing the ability to see 'fore turning even 20 would seemingly arrest the continuity and occurrence of some major things. For one moment I can stop appreciating beauty through my art but never in life through my senses.

Appears like asking someone if they would rather die or be dead. I dunno. Thanks for asking though!

Every road I abandoned is the shortest that leads home today; every star that slipped added some more nights without sleep. The things I battled for are today in battle against me; the birds I pursued are the birds I left behind. "Maybe you never had a dream, and if you did have one, you never believed in it", I heard my friends saying, and all that I remembered were the saplings that were uprooted and planted on lands where most of their kinds thrived, the mouths that were shut with examples of stomachs that dried, the legs that couldn't fold themselves to keep the heads high, and the heads that were taught to dream but never offered the chance to dream freely.

Shayan Das

Little did she know in the process of exploring me she would end up discovering more of herself.

Shayan Das

Life seems meaningful only after we suffer.

Shayan Das

"Your grandfather and I've been together for 56 years", said my grandma one night while showing some tattered photographs from her shabby album. Her eyes sparkled as she went by each page, narrating their first meeting and reliving her girlhood. I picked up one and asked after some time, with a thrill of stupefaction, "What held it, what helped the love between you and Grandpa last so long? ..." "What shall hold love", she chuckled, her eyes still glued on the photographs, as if trying hard to forget about the ephemerality of young romance. "What shall hold love", she continued after a pause, "when love's supposed to hold us? At first, I thought I loved him. Well, I did, perhaps not once but countless times, in a multitude of ways. In fact, he loved me with the same sincerity. But what's more essential is that each time we loved one another, we felt we were loving ourselves. When I trusted him, I felt I was trusting myself; when he promised he would make my dreams come true, he worked all night to make his dreams come true. His pains were my pains, and my insecurities his. When I thought I'd lose him, I felt I'd lose myself; every time he found I was contented, his joys would know no bounds. Throughout our lives, we were busy saving ourselves and ended up protecting each other". 

Shayan Das

I was a dream until one day I had my own dreams. My peers thought I'd outshine them; my parents expected my light would embellish them until one day it blemished me. 'Cause to shine is to build expectations and to build expectations is to be vulnerable. You ascend, albeit you know that the higher one goes, the more bones he breaks each time he falls. You trade your ambitions to build someone else's, snivel in silence and make endless excuses to defend each catastrophe until one day you find yourself becoming them, exhausted and devastated, on the verge of hitting mediocrity, and questioning why you couldn't be that anticipated one. All you wonder is if only you could stop that 7-year-old boy from striving those extra hours to top his class, rip apart the diary when he wrote his first story at 11, fasten those lips that whispered in praise of him, burn the books that told a 15-year-old boy that he can be almost anything in this world only if he aspires to. You pray only if you could dissolve into oblivion until one day you get to make a noise and yet remain unexplored.

Shayan Das

If Only (Poem) by Shayan Das

[Artworks/Images: In Bed: The Kiss, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1892) | Renoir (2012) | Romantic Lovers, Willem Haenraets]

i’m such a big fan of yours :)

romanticism is always going to hold a very special place in my heart, and within that place, lies an even smaller sector dedicated especially to your poems in particular. whenever i find myself staring at the ceiling with such existential dread it scares me, i long to stare at your poems instead. you are one of the reasons i find such beauty in the mundane and everyday. thank you, for everything you do, and it truly makes me feel.. i don’t know actually. its such an odd feeling reading your work, it makes me yearn to read every word you’ve ever written. i can never get enough.

<3

Gosh, I was having a tough day at work throughout and you just made my night with this. I just can't thank you enough. Sending loads of love and positivity along your way <3