Creative Writing

Script writing

Poetic Experimantations

No Final Solutions

We build walls,

layering trust and hatred

like uneven stones.

And in the cracks,

the same ache grows

see me, hear me, let me in.

We heard the cry

“If you are willing to forget,

I am willing to tolerate,

we are willing to tolerate”

not peace,

but a bargain for existence,

a trembling reach for acceptance

in a world quick to divide.

Yet beyond us,

trees stand without asking,

rivers flow without permission,

the sky opens for every gaze.

We think of it, we chase it,

we wear the masks of secularism and show.

There are no final solutions

only the hush of nature,

where questions fall silent,

and for a moment,

we are simply enough.

So, Is This the End?

I counted the sleepless nights

was I waiting, or just wandering blind?

Then came one night, quiet and kind,

that held my ache, as if it knew

did it know how deep I’d bled through?

The one who healed now limps through pain,

was my peace their hidden chain?

The lost self whispers, soft and weak,

was the bond too fragile to speak?

The silence grows where warmth had been.

If comfort turns its face away,

and echoes fade where we once lay,

will silence cradle what we meant,

or does love decay when it’s spent?

So, is this the end?