u/Aspirantjee2024

Maybe I Was the Storm

Maybe I was wrong,

maybe I was weak,

maybe I let anger

borrow my tongue to speak.

Maybe I made wounds

where words could have healed,

maybe I blamed you

for pain I never revealed.

Maybe I held one side

and called it the truth,

painted you distant

through the ache of my youth.

Maybe your silence

was not meant to burn,

maybe you had your own

roads, wounds, and turns.

You said,

“I am not first you should call”

and I heard,

“You will not come at all.”

But maybe you meant,

“I am far from your door,

I cannot be first

when your heart hits the floor.”

Maybe I counted

the nights I had stayed,

then weighed your care

on the debt I had made.

Maybe that was unfair,

maybe that was pride,

maybe I kept my hurt

and pushed your truth aside.

The world had been bitter,

so bitter I grew,

and I planted that poison

in the garden of you.

Some words are small,

but they sink like stone,

and echo for months

in a heart left alone.

Maybe you never meant

the meaning I gave,

maybe I turned fear

into something to brave.

Maybe I spoke

from a place not clear,

dressed up my doubt

as a right to appear.

Maybe I said things

I had no right to say,

then wondered why closeness

kept drifting away.

I wanted goodbye

to hurt less if it came,

so I rehearsed losing you

and called it your blame.

I built up a wall

before you could leave,

then cried at the distance

that I made you believe.

I do not blame you

for choosing your peace,

for drawing a boundary,

for wanting release.

I blame the storm

I carried inside,

the one that wore love

as anger and pride.

I am ashamed

I misunderstood,

ashamed that I wounded

where I should have stood.

You were not cruel,

maybe just true,

and I was too broken

to clearly see you.

So if goodbye comes,

let it come clean,

not sharp with the things

we never could mean.

Let it be gentle,

let it be slow,

let it forgive

what we did not know.

And if I cannot

undo what is done,

let me become

a softer one.

One who listens

before he defends,

one who does not

make weapons of ends.

One who can hold

his hurt in his chest,

without giving pain

to the one who cared best.

Maybe I was wrong,

maybe I was blind,

maybe I lost you

inside my own mind.

Maybe I was learning,

late and torn apart—

how not to make anger

the language of heart

.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/c2rpkPuRgv

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/H7B87UCqH9

A MAN IN HIS LATE 50s

I am about to reach my home,

the place I still yearn to go.

Not the building, not the neighbours,

not the lane I once knew,

but the people living there,

who make even silence feel warm too.

The gate opens like an old memory,

the door creaks in the same tone,

and before I can say anything,

my father pulls me close.

A warm hug,

simple and tight,

as if months of distance

can be forgiven in one night.

I used to open the fridge in winter,

again and again, without shame,

looking for fruits, candies,

or anything sweet with my name.

And now, after months,

there are candies in the fridge still,

kept for a grown-up twenty-one,

by someone who remembers every little will.

I do not have to tell my mother

what I want for dinner anymore.

She knows the hunger in my face

before I even reach the door.

A man in his late 50s

feels proud showing me his plants,

the tiny leaves, the careful soil,

the life he grew with patient hands.

He tells me which one survived the heat,

which one bloomed late, which one bent,

and I listen like he is not speaking of plants,

but of all the years he spent.

Things have changed.

He has too.

We stay away from home,

because we have degrees to pursue.

We chase a future in distant rooms,

while he grows older in the one we outgrew.

He became more patient,

less hostile, more kind.

Maybe age softened his voice,

maybe loneliness changed his mind.

He understands now

that my mother is the only one

for his dusk,

and for his sunshine.

Every time I visit,

he seems a little more wrinkled,

a little more fragile,

a little more slow.

Yet his wisdom is aging like fine wine,

the kind only time can grow.

I used to wonder

why he never understood me,

why his love sounded like anger,

why his care came with worry.

But maybe it was his first time too,

being a father, being this strong.

Maybe he was also learning,

maybe I judged him wrong.

Maybe all the blame

was never his.

He never asked me to hold back

from anything I wanted.

Never made his sacrifices loud,

never made his tiredness counted.

He stood behind every dream,

even when he did not understand the road.

He carried his fears quietly,

so I could carry hope.

A man in his late 50s

does not always say,

“I missed you.”

Sometimes he keeps candies in the fridge.

Sometimes he asks if I ate.

Sometimes he shows me plants,

and waits for me near the gate.

Sometimes his love is not a sentence,

but a sweater kept aside.

A fruit cut without asking,

a light left on outside.

And I realize,

home was never only a place,

nor the walls, nor the roof,

nor the old familiar space.

Home was my mother knowing dinner,

my father waiting silently,

and a man in his late 50s

growing older while loving me.

And I realize,

home was never where I lay,

but in the love that waited

even when I stayed away.

My mother served,

my father stayed,

and all my life

was what they made.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/6a9bEmw76v

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/37JXlw5MRp

Today, I am crying as I lost my dear one,

Still there are many left but one as near one.

Together we were everything otherwise we were none.

In my worst situations when no one was there

He was the one who said

"I am always here"

But the childhood slipped through the time's embrace

Summer holidays vanished without a trace

The laughter, the games, the careless fun all gone

All the toys and board games are now thrown

Now I sit, my hands clenched tight

Tears falling on, eyes in pursuit of light

That old worn-out band still wraps my wrist

A memory of the friend I miss

I close my eyes, lost in despair

Wishing just to find him there

Suddenly my favourite voice surrounds

And the words were

"I never left, I'm always there"

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/3jszPkpwkf

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Crug5NuwRY

​

अगर मुझे न फर्क पड़ता,

तो क्यों साथ तेरे मैं समय बिताता?

न फर्क पड़ता तो क्यों तेरे दुख में

तू मुझे साथ खड़ा पाता?

जब चंद मिनट चाहिए थे तुझे,

मैं शामों तक तेरे संग गुज़ारता था।

न लिखता कविता तेरे लिए,

तेरे साथ बीते पलों को शब्दों में क्यों सँवारता?

न चाहने से मेरी आई थी,

न बता के तू गई थी।

हाँ, दर्द हुआ था…

पर फिर भी साँसें मेरी चल रही थीं।

जिन लोगों से फर्क पड़ता है,

उनके जाने से ही डर लगता है।

दो पल और साथ रहे तू मेरे,

इसलिए चुटकुले तुझे सुनाता था,

यहाँ-वहाँ की बातें करके

तुझे मुद्दे से भटकाता था।

तुझे बुरा लगे या घबराहट हो,

बैठकर तुझे validate कराता था।

पर जब जिस चीज़ का डर है मुझे,

वो तुझे बताता हूँ —

तो validate होने की जगह

“I’m not up for that” सुनकर रह जाता हूँ।

हाँ, फर्क मुझे भी पड़ता है,

और दर्द मुझे भी होता है।

बस आस अब उतनी रखता नहीं,

न ही लगाव में जल्दी पड़ता हूँ।

काफी कुछ बर्दाश्त हुआ है,

तो पूछते हो फर्क क्यों न पड़े?

हाँ, पड़ता है…

बस दिखाना नहीं चाहता।

जो ज़ख्म हैं, उन्हें

बार-बार कुरेदवाना नहीं चाहता।

मुझे पता है, लगाव जल्दी हो जाता है,

और फिर वो कहीं नज़र नहीं आता।

जब सुनना था —

हाँ, हुआ होगा कुछ उसके साथ,

शायद काबू में न हों उसके हालात या जज़्बात…

बस पूछ लिया मैंने —

मेरे होने न होने से कुछ फर्क पड़ता है?

तब सुना —

“गांडू सही था वो,

चूतिया-चूतिया बातें करवा लो,

फर्क उससे पड़ता नहीं…”

तो क्यों करूँ दिमाग का अपने दही?

ना नाम पूछा तेरा महीना,

ना शक्ल-सूरत जानता था,

फिर भी तुझे अपना ही मानता था।

बस चाहता था कुछ पल और

हम साथ व्यतीत करें,

ना चाहता था जो ढाल थी मेरी,

वो मुझ पर ही वार करे।

अब ना रखता हूँ आस,

ना किसी को रखता इतना पास।

कल भी था थोड़ा उदास,

आज भी यूँ ही घूमता हूँ — देवदास।

फर्क पड़ता है या नहीं —

ये सवाल अभी भी साथ है,

कुछ जवाब मेरे पास हैं,

कुछ शायद तेरे पास हैं।

कहानी अधूरी सी लगती है,

जैसे कोई बात बाकी हो,

शायद मैं भी समझ न पाया,

शायद तुझे भी कुछ कहना बाकी हो…

​ THE PEOPLE PLEASER

I am the one they call when something is missing,

A pen, a file, a moment of fixing.

A quiet “can you?”—I never refuse,

Even when I know I’ve something to lose.

I show up first, I stay till the end,

Not just a helper—but everyone’s friend.

From notes to emotions, from tasks to care,

I carry their weight like it’s mine to bear.

They say, “help freely, don’t expect in return,”

So I gave away pieces I never could earn.

And maybe I listened a little too much,

Maybe I forgot my own need for touch.

Because when I needed—even just a few,

The silence around me suddenly grew.

No hands reached out, no voices stayed,

Just echoes of all the help I gave.

And I wonder now, was it ever them?

Or was it me, again and again?

For never once did I draw a line,

Never said, “this much is mine.”

They reach for me like I’m always there,

A habit, a shortcut—not someone they care.

A stapler here, a lozenge there,

A piece of me scattered everywhere.

I shared my work, said “change it a bit,”

They copied it whole—and I took the hit.

Blame found me, as it always does,

The cost of being who I was.

So here’s the truth I can’t ignore—

I wasn’t kind… I was convenient before.

And if I keep giving just to be seen,

I’ll stay invisible in between.

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/3jszPkpwkf

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/s/Crug5NuwRY