A quiet spill of thoughts,
Born from grief, shaped by grace—
An acknowledgement of pain,
Love poured freely,
Not to mend,
But to feel.
To choose the ache,
And still give more.
This isn’t healing—
It’s the courage to love,
Knowing the cost.
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PARITOSH SHUKLA
A worthy lover who tried making efforts to love someone who wasn’t so. With the baggage of
responsibilities he grew, sacrificing every dream he lived on until love came and buried him alive. It
wasn’t so tough to be a writer, the story of life he lived was enough to bleed on these clean sheets of
paper. In sophistication, let’s call it a book of pain not his pain. He was told not to be like his father, so
apparently, he didn’t have superheroes growing up. Though later he realized, someone who doesn’t
talks straight faced, loves him the most rationally. His mother has always been his home as she was
mostly at home also unlike woke fake feminists she loves him unconditionally. He took this brave choice
to spill his bleeding heart out, hoping certain someone would recognize, realize, and analyze the pain
they caused and a wreckage they have left behind. He doesn’t ask to sympathize or feel pity rather just
an acknowledgment for breaking so intensively.
