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usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

Faith and Doubt

Where belief and questioning walk the same road

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Introduction

In the quiet hours before the dawn,
When night's shadows slowly withdraw,
The heart holds conversations
With questions that have no end.

We reach for something greater,
Some hand to hold in darkness,
Some voice to pierce the silence,
Some meaning in the madness.

Yet even as we reach, we wonder—
Is anyone reaching back?
This is the dance of faith and doubt,
The pendulum of the soul.

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The Ghazal of Belief and Questioning

(Each couplet holds a prayer and a question)

I kneel to pray in empty rooms, my words float up like smoke.
Do you hear me, or do I speak to silence? A quiet joke.

The child asks why the good die young, why suffering has no name.
I open my mouth to answer, but doubt is all I claim.

I walked through fire and came out whole—was it grace or just my feet?
I want to believe a hand held mine, but logic tastes so sweet.

The sunset paints the sky in gold, a masterpiece so grand.
Is this your brush or just the spin of a indifferent land?

She prayed for healing, night and day, with faith so pure, so deep.
She died anyway. What do I do with the promises you keep?

In doubt, I find a strange new faith—a faith that questions too.
Perhaps you're in the asking, not the answers we pursue.

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The Architecture of Belief

We build our faith like cathedrals—
Stone by stone, question by question,
Each doubt a flying buttress,
Each hope a stained-glass window
Catching light we cannot see.

Some days the structure feels solid,
The foundation firm beneath our feet.
We feel the presence in the pews,
The whisper in the wind,
The hand in the hardest times.

Other days, it all seems hollow—
A stage set with no play,
A script with no author,
A building with no foundation
But our own desperate need
For there to be something more.

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When Silence Answers

The hardest moments are the silent ones—
When we cry out and nothing comes back,
When we beg for signs and see only
The ordinary unfolding of an indifferent world.

Where were you when the diagnosis came?
When the phone rang with terrible news?
When the coffin lowered into the ground?
When the child asked why?

We look for you in miracles,
But find only medicine.
We listen for you in storms,
But hear only wind.
We wait for you in darkness,
But feel only our own heartbeat,
Steady and unexplained.

And in that silence, faith either dies
Or transforms into something else—
Something that does not need answers,
Something that holds the questions
Like precious, broken things.

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The Thread of Hope

Yet hope persists like morning glories—
Opening even in the cracks of despair.
We see it in the nurse who stays late,
The stranger who pays the coffee forward,
The hand that reaches for another hand
In the darkest night.

Is this not also you?
In the kindness we cannot explain,
In the love that outlasts reason,
In the beauty that breaks through
The concrete of our cynicism?

Perhaps you are not in the answers,
But in the questions themselves.
Not in the miracles,
But in the courage to keep asking.
Not in the light that never dims,
But in the hands that find each other
When all the lights go out.

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The Doubt That Deepens

There is a faith that fears no questions,
That welcomes doubt like an old friend,
Knowing that what can be shattered
Was never strong enough to hold.

I have come to trust my doubts
More than my certainties.
For certainties are walls
That keep the unknown out.
But doubts are doors
That open onto mystery.

The faith that never questioned
Is like a love that never tested—
Fragile, untested, unprepared
For the real storms of life.

But the faith that walked through doubt,
That sat with questions in the dark,
That held uncertainty like a child—
That faith has roots that reach
To waters no drought can touch.

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The Common Ground

Perhaps faith and doubt are not opponents
But companions on the same journey.
Perhaps every believer is also a doubter,
And every doubter, in their seeking,
Is closer to faith than they know.

For what is doubt but care taken seriously?
What is questioning but love that refuses
Easy answers and cheap grace?
What is searching but the soul's admission
That something must be found?

The opposite of faith is not doubt—
It is indifference.
The opposite of belief is not questioning—
It is not caring enough to ask.

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Finding Our Way

So how do we live in this tension—
Believing and doubting,
Hoping and fearing,
Reaching and withdrawing?

Perhaps we live like Abraham—
Leaving what we know
For a place we cannot see.
Perhaps we live like Mary—
Holding mystery in our bodies
Without fully understanding.

Perhaps we live like the disciples
On the storm-tossed boat—
Crying out in fear,
Yet still in the boat,
Still together,
Still moving toward some shore.

We live by practicing—
Practicing prayer even when no one seems to listen,
Practicing kindness even when it seems absurd,
Practicing hope even when the news is bad,
Practicing love even when we've been hurt before.

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The Gift of Uncertainty

I am learning to see uncertainty
Not as a curse but as a gift.
For if I knew everything,
There would be no room for wonder.
If I had all the answers,
There would be no need for trust.
If faith were proven,
It would not be faith at all.

The space between belief and doubt
Is where the soul grows.
The tension between knowing and not knowing
Is where character is forged.
The questions without answers
Are the ones that make us human.

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Conclusion

So let us hold both—
Faith and doubt,
Belief and question,
Certainty and wonder.

Let us build cathedrals
With room for questioning.
Let us pray prayers
That include our doubts.
Let us seek signs
In ordinary moments.

For in the end, perhaps the greatest faith
Is not the one with all the answers,
But the one that keeps showing up—
Still asking, still hoping, still loving,
Even in the silence,
Even in the dark,
Even when the only answer
Is the courage to keep asking.

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#FaithAndDoubt #BeliefAndQuestioning #SpiritualJourney #FindingMeaning #HopeInDarkness #SacredUncertainty #PoetryOfTheSoul #Ghazal #SpiritualPoetry #QuestioningFaith #DoubtIsNotTheOpposite #StillBelieving #MysteryOfFaith #QuietDesperation #SpiritualGrowth #PoetryCommunity #WritersOfInstagram #DeepFaith #HonestFaith #FaithJourney #SacredQuestions #MeaningMaking

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This poem explores the tender, honest struggle between faith and doubt—a tension that defines the human search for meaning. Through the traditional Ghazal form and reflective verses, it captures the moments when belief feels solid and when it crumbles, when prayer seems answered and when it meets only silence. The poem acknowledges the hardest questions—why the good die young, why suffering exists, why some prayers go unanswered—yet suggests that doubt is not the enemy of faith but its companion. True faith, the poem argues, is not the one with all the answers, but the one that keeps showing up, keeps asking, keeps hoping. It finds holiness not in certainty but in the courage to hold both belief and questioning together, and discovers that sometimes the greatest faith grows precisely from the soil of doubt.

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usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

4 month ago

The Loneliness of Busy Cities

Where millions gather, yet hearts wander alone

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Introduction

Concrete giants kiss the sky,
A million footsteps hurry by.
Neon lights and rushing trains,
Windows glazed with silver rains.
So many faces, so much sound,
Yet loneliness is what I've found—
A paradox of modern days,
How crowds can hide the loneliest ways.

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The Ghazal of Urban Isolation

(Each couplet captures a moment of alone in the crowd)

The train is packed at half-past five—a thousand bodies, none alive.
Each face is buried in a screen, each soul in its own dive.

She sits beside me every day, the woman in the red.
We've never spoken, never swayed, not one small word been said.

The city screams with taxi horns and sirens through the night.
But in my room, a silence born—no voice, no sound, no light.

A million parties light the streets, a million glasses clink.
Yet here I stand on empty streets, too tired even to think.

The café buzzes with warm talk, with lovers holding hands.
I sip my coffee, take my walk, a stranger in these lands.

The billboards scream, "You're not enough—buy this and you'll be whole."
But in the crowd, I feel the stuff of cracks within my soul.

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Strangers Passing Strangers

We pass each other every day—
On escalators, in subway cars,
In elevators rising through glass towers,
In crosswalks at the changing light.

We wear our invisibility like coats,
Buttoned tight against the cold
Of being truly seen,
Truly known.

I know the rhythm of your commute—
The way you check your watch at 8:15,
The way you close your eyes on the express train,
The way you straighten your tie before exiting.

But I do not know your name.
I do not know if you are happy.
I do not know if anyone is waiting
When you finally reach home.

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The Architecture of Distance

They built these cities for connection—
Bridges and tunnels and wires,
Trains that race beneath the earth,
Planes that stitch the sky.

But somewhere in the blueprint,
They forgot to draw
The spaces where hearts might meet,
The corners where souls might touch.

So we live in beautiful boxes,
Stacked toward the heavens,
Close enough to hear each other's music,
Far enough to never have to knock.

The walls we build to keep us safe
Become the walls that keep us alone.
And privacy becomes a prison
With a view of other prisons.

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The Digital Crowd

I scroll through endless faces—
Smiling, laughing, living.
Friends I haven't seen in years,
Strangers I'll never meet.

I type words into glowing rectangles,
Send them into the void,
Wait for hearts and likes and comments,
The currency of connection in this age.

But when I put the phone down,
When the screen goes dark,
I see my face reflected—
And wonder if anyone really sees it
Beyond the glass.

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The Quiet Ones

Look closely at the crowd—
Past the hurried steps,
Past the downcast eyes,
Past the headphones playing private soundtracks.

See the old man feeding pigeons,
Talking to them softly
Because there's no one else to talk to.
See the woman in the coffee shop,
Stirring her latte for an hour,
Just to have a place to be.

See the teenager on the bridge,
Watching traffic flow like a river,
Wondering if anyone would notice
If he stopped coming home.

The loudest city hides
The quietest hearts.

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The Weight of Shoulds

They tell us we should feel alive here—
In the pulse of the metropolis,
In the rhythm of the crowd,
In the endless possibilities.

And sometimes we do—
In moments stolen from the rush,
When a stranger holds the door and smiles,
When a street musician plays our favorite song,
When the sunset paints the skyscrapers gold.

But should is a heavy word,
And expectation is a weight.
And when the city's promises
Fall short of what we need,
The silence echoes louder
Than any traffic ever could.

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Finding Connection

Perhaps the secret is not in the crowd,
But in the courage to step out of it—
To be the one who speaks,
Who sees,
Who risks.

To look up from the screen
And meet another pair of eyes.
To say hello to the woman on the train.
To ask the old man his name.

For every lonely heart in this city
Is waiting for the same thing—
Not to be lost in the crowd,
But to be found by one person
Who stops, who sees, who stays.

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The City Teaches

The city, in its brutal honesty,
Teaches us what we truly need.
Not more faces, more noise, more things—
But one face that lights up at ours,
One voice that knows our name,
One heart that beats in time with ours.

It strips away the illusion
That quantity equals connection,
That proximity means community,
That being surrounded
Is the same as being held.

And in that stripping,
If we are brave enough to see,
We learn what matters most—
The quality of one true glance,
The depth of one real conversation,
The warmth of one hand in ours.

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Conclusion

So here we are, millions strong,
Yet sometimes so alone.
But maybe loneliness is not the end—
Maybe it's the beginning.

The beginning of reaching out,
Of seeing past the screens,
Of speaking to the stranger,
Of building bridges where there were walls.

For in the end, the city is just us—
All of us, together, separate.
And the loneliness we feel
Is only the space between
Waiting to be crossed.

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#CityLoneliness #UrbanIsolation #AloneInTheCrowd #ModernLoneliness #CityLife #MentalHealthAwareness #PoetryOfTheStreets #Ghazal #UrbanPoetry #QuietHearts #Connection #HumanConnection #StrangerInTheCity #Metropolis #EmotionalWellness #PoetryCommunity #WritersOfInstagram #DeepThoughts #ReflectivePoetry

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usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

4 month ago

Memories That Refuse to Leave

Where the past lingers like perfume on an empty room

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Introduction

They say time heals, time moves, time fades—
But some memories refuse to be buried in graves.
They follow us like shadows at dusk,
Like the familiar, lingering musk
Of a love long gone, a place we've left,
A heart we loved, a soul bereft.
These memories—they stay, they breathe, they cling,
Making the present feel like an echo of everything.

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The Ghazal of Lingering Echoes

(Each couplet holds a ghost that will not fade)

The street where we once walked remains—the same old trees, the same old lane.
But now I walk it all alone, in sunshine and in rain.

I found a letter in a drawer, your handwriting still bold.
The words we wrote, the love we swore—a story grown so old.

That song came on the radio, the one we used to sway.
I stopped to listen, lost my breath, and let the moment stay.

The café where we met is gone, replaced by something new.
Yet every time I pass that spot, I'm standing there with you.

I smell your perfume on the air—in crowds, in empty rooms.
A ghost of you is everywhere, in flowers and in blooms.

The photograph is faded now, the edges soft and worn.
But in my mind, it's still alive—the day that we were born.

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The Geography of Memory

There are maps we carry inside our skin—
Places we've been, places we've loved,
Streets that remember the weight of our footsteps,
Rooms that echo with conversations long finished.

I cannot pass the park without seeing you
On that bench, feeding the pigeons,
Your laughter scattering the birds
Like secrets thrown to the wind.

The cinema still shows the same films,
But the seat beside me is empty,
Holding only the shape of absence,
The outline of someone who used to be.

Every landmark is a monument
To a time that no longer exists,
Yet exists more vividly than the present—
This strange geography of the heart.

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The Taste of Yesterday

Some memories live in the senses—
The smell of rain on hot concrete,
The taste of coffee on a Sunday morning,
The feel of wool against cold skin.

Suddenly, without warning,
I am there again—
In your kitchen, watching you cook,
The sizzle of onions, the garlic smell,
The way you'd taste the sauce and smile.

And then I'm back in the present,
The meal cold, the kitchen quiet,
Wondering how a simple taste
Can transport me across years
Faster than any machine.

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The Weight of Happy Things

It's strange how the happiest memories
Sometimes hurt the most.
Not because they were sad,
But because they were so beautiful
And they will never come again.

That summer by the lake,
The water warm, the nights long,
The fireflies writing poems in the dark—
I carry it like a stone in my chest,
Heavy and precious,
A treasure that bruises.

The laughter of friends now scattered,
The dinners that lasted until dawn,
The conversations that solved the world—
They live in me like guests
Who forgot to leave,
Who made themselves at home
In every corner of my heart.

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The Ghosts That Teach

Yet these memories are not cruel—
They are not here to haunt,
But to remind.

They whisper: You were alive.
You loved. You laughed. You felt.
The sun touched your face once,
And you noticed.
The rain caught you in its dance,
And you let it.

They hold up a mirror to who I was
So I can see who I've become.
They show me the thread
That runs through all my days,
Connecting the child, the lover, the dreamer,
The one who hoped, the one who lost,
The one who keeps hoping still.

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Living With the Past

I have learned to make peace
With these memories that refuse to leave.
I have given them rooms in my house,
Not as prisoners, but as honored guests.

Some days they visit for breakfast—
We sip coffee together,
Remembering old times.
Some days they stay in their rooms,
Quiet and still,
Letting me live in the present.

I no longer try to evict them.
I no longer wish them gone.
For what would be left of me
Without the ghosts of all my yesterdays?
An empty house, clean and hollow,
But not a home.

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The Gift of Memory

So let them stay—
These memories that refuse to leave.
Let them weave through my days
Like threads of gold through ordinary cloth.

They are proof that I have lived,
That I have loved,
That I have been touched by moments
So beautiful they refuse to die.

They are my private museum,
My inner library,
The soundtrack of a life
Still playing, still playing,
Even as the needle wears down
The grooves of my heart.

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Conclusion

We are not just who we are today—
We are everyone we've ever been,
Every place we've ever loved,
Every person we've ever held.

Memories that refuse to leave
Are not our burden—
They are our blessing.
They are the echo of a life fully lived,
The shadow of a light that shone so bright
It left an indelible mark
On the fabric of forever.

Let them stay.
Let them stay.
They are the only proof we have
That we were here,
That we mattered,
That we loved.

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#MemoriesThatLinger #PastAndPresent #Nostalgia #EchoesOfYesterday #GhostsOfThePast #MemoryLane #EmotionalPoetry #Ghazal #PoetryOfLife #HeartfeltVerses #LivingWithMemories #Bittersweet #BeautifulPain #TimeHeals #PoetryCommunity #WritersOfInstagram #ReflectivePoetry #DeepThoughts #EmotionalHealing

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usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

4 month ago

One-Sided Love

Where the heart loves and the lips remain silent

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Introduction

In the garden of unspoken things,
Where silent tears and longing clings,
There blooms a love that never sees the sun—
A story finished before it's begun.
To love someone who never knows your name,
To burn alone in secret, silent flame.

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The Ghazal of Hidden Longing

(Each couplet holds a universe of quiet ache)

I learn your coffee order, your favorite song, the way you laugh at dawn.
You do not know I exist at all—I am the shadow on your lawn.

You speak of her with stars inside your eyes, your voice so soft and warm.
I nod and smile and slowly die, weathering the storm.

I memorize the curve of your hand, the way it holds a pen.
You'll never know I'd cross any land just to hold it once. Amen.

You sat beside me on the bus, our shoulders almost touched.
I held my breath, I cursed the rush, I wanted so much.

I wrote you letters I'll never send, poems you'll never read.
A one-sided love that has no end, a heart that cannot bleed.

You wished me happy birthday—a generic, polite reply.
I carved that moment in my mind, beneath a private sky.

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The Art of Invisibility

To love unnoticed is to become a ghost—
Present at every party, at every post,
Standing in corners, watching from afar,
Wishing upon a distant, dying star.

I know the exact blue of your eyes
Under overcast November skies.
I know the way your laughter sounds
When joy has you unbound.

I know your fears, your dreams, your taste,
The way you hurry, the way you haste.
I've built a museum of all things you—
Every fact collected, everything true.

But you—you do not see me at all.
I'm just a face in the hall,
A name in a crowded room,
A flower destined to bloom
Invisible, silent, unknown—
A garden planted alone.

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The Weight of Silence

Some days the silence feels like stone,
A weight I carry entirely alone.
I want to speak, to scream, to shout—
To let these feelings out.

But fear holds tighter than any chain,
Whispering again and again:
"What if he laughs? What if she leaves?
What if the dream becomes what grieves?"

So I remain in my safe disguise,
Reading the truth behind your lies
When you tell me of another love,
Sent from somewhere up above.

I celebrate your happiness,
Even as it makes a mess
Of every hope I dared to hold,
Every story left untold.

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The Beauty in the Pain

Yet something strange begins to grow—
A love that asks for nothing, that flows
Not toward possession or return,
But simply for the sake of burn.

I learn to love you quietly,
Without demand, without a plea.
I learn that love can be a gift
Given freely, without a rift.

Your joy becomes my secret sun,
Even though I'm not the one
Who puts the laughter in your eyes,
Who catches you when you rise.

I find a strange, sad purity
In this one-sided love of me.
No expectations, no demands,
Just these invisible, loving hands.

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The Shaping of a Soul

And slowly, quietly, I start to see
How this love has been shaping me.
Teaching patience, teaching grace,
Teaching strength I cannot face.

I become softer, yet stronger too—
Learning to love without a clue
If I will ever be held in return,
If these silent fires will ever burn

Bright enough for you to see
The person standing quietly,
Loving you without a sound,
On this one-sided, holy ground.

I learn that love is not always received,
But that does not mean it's deceived.
Love given freely, without a cost,
Is never, ever truly lost.

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Letting Go

The day will come—I know, I feel—
When I must choose my own heart's heal.
When loving you from far away
Is no longer the price I pay.

I'll gather up the dreams I've spun,
Thank you for the hidden sun,
And walk away with quiet grace,
The tears concealed upon my face.

Not because I love you less,
But because I need to bless
Myself with chances yet to be,
With love that might return to me.

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Conclusion

So here's to every hidden heart
That loves and plays its silent part.
To every glance never returned,
To every fire that quietly burned.

You are not foolish; you are brave—
A love like yours has power to save,
Not the one who never knew,
But the beautiful, broken heart in you.

For even love that walks alone
Plants seeds that later will be sown.
And one day, you will find your way
To love that asks your name to stay.

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Hashtags

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Summary:This poem explores the tender, painful journey of loving someone who never realizes your feelings. Through the traditional Ghazal form and reflective verses, it captures the silent struggle—the admiration from afar, the weight of unspoken words, and the quiet ache of watching them love another. Yet ultimately, it reveals how even unreturned love shapes us, teaching patience, grace, and the profound lesson that love given freely, without expectation, is never wasted. It ends with a gentle acceptance and the courage to finally let go, honoring the beauty in thebrokenness

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usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

4 month ago

Destiny vs Choice

Where paths intersect and souls connect

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Introduction

In the quiet spaces between heartbeats,
Where wonder wanders and reflection meets,
A question echoes through the corridors of time—
Are our meetings written in some cosmic rhyme?
Or do we stumble, choose, and then create
The moments that become our very fate?

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The Ghazal of Encounters

(Each couplet stands alone, yet weaves a tale)

The train departed, I forgot my phone—a stranger called me back.
Now years have passed, we share a home, a life, a love, a track.

I took the left, you took the right, a crossroad held its breath.
Two hearts diverged on different roads, two lives on different breadth.

The café spilled my coffee just as you walked through the door.
A clumsy accident, they laughed—what was I waiting for?

She wore a ribbon in her hair the color of the sky.
I caught her eye, then lost my nerve, and watched her wander by.

The book you dropped, the page I marked, the library's hush,
A silent spark that grew to light, a gentle, steady rush.

We met online, a careless swipe, a profile and a prayer.
A million faces in the crowd, and yours was waiting there.

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The Art of Missing

Some meetings are like summer rain—
Unexpected, washing away the plain.
Others like autumn leaves that fall,
Briefly touching, then giving no call at all.

I think about the flight I missed,
The train that left, the goodbye kiss
That never happened because I stayed,
The choices made, the debts unpaid.

What if I had walked the other way
On that particular November day?
What if you had chosen to stay home
Instead of through the city streets to roam?

The universe of what-ifs stretches wide,
A parallel existence where we never collided,
Where your name is just another sound,
Where your face is never, ever found.

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Destiny in Disguise

But sometimes destiny wears ordinary clothes—
A spilled drink, a text, a forgotten hose,
A conversation at the grocery line,
A friend who says, "You simply must meet mine."

It speaks through moments we almost ignore,
Through coincidences that leave us wanting more.
It whispers in the traffic jam that made you late,
That placed you at the corner, at the perfect gate.

Was it fate that turned your head that day?
Or choice that made you stop and stay?
Perhaps the answer floats between the two—
We choose the path, but destiny pulls us through.

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The Fabric of Connection

Think of all the moments that had to align
For your hand to meet mine.
Think of all the choices along the way—
The words we said, the games we didn't play.

Our ancestors, surviving against the odds,
Building bridges to the present gods
Of love and chance and circumstance,
Giving us this one eternal chance.

Every choice a thread, every fate a weave,
A tapestry that's hard to disbelieve.
Some patterns we create with our own hands,
Others woven by forces no one understands.

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Ordinary Magic

The magic hides in plainest sight—
A morning coffee, a evening light,
A stranger's smile, a friend's embrace,
A familiar voice in an unfamiliar place.

Last Tuesday, walking in the rain,
I saw a couple start their story again.
An argument, a pause, then gentle laughter—
They chose each other, and ever after
Hung in the balance of that single choice,
Two hearts finding their harmonious voice.

This is how destiny often appears—
Not in thunder, but in quiet tears,
Not in lightning, but in steady hands,
Not in commands, but in understand.

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Conclusion

So are our meetings written or designed?
Both threads are beautifully intertwined.
We choose the steps, but something guides the dance—
A plan, a luck, a holy circumstance.

Cherish the strangers who become your own,
The seeds of connection that you've sown.
Whether destiny or choice leads the way,
Be grateful for the meetings of today.

For in the end, the reason matters less
Than the love we give, the lives we bless.
Whether written or chosen, hold them tight—
These meetings that become our guiding light.

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#DestinyVsChoice #FateOrFreeWill #PoetryOfLife #UnexpectedEncounters #MissedChances #LoveAndFate #PhilosophicalPoetry #LifeReflections #Ghazal #SpokenWord #SoulConnections #DivineTiming #EverydayMagic #ChooseWisely #PathOfLife #MeetingOfSouls #DestinyInDisguise #PoetryCommunity #WritersOfInstag

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usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

4 month ago

Disposable Relationships

Intro:
There was a time when love was like handmade paper—rough, imperfect, but made to last a lifetime. Promises were etched with ink that never faded. Today, relationships often feel like paper cups—used for a quick sip of warmth, then tossed aside without a second thought. We have entered an era of swipe-and-forget, where hearts are rented, not owned. This ghazal explores that fragile space between what love was meant to be and what it has become.

The Ghazal

Like plastic cups we use and toss, these bonds we make today,
A heart is just a passing cost, in games we play today.

You said "forever" on the phone, your voice so warm and true,
But "forever" now is just a gloss, a word we say today.
3
We met, we clicked, we shared a dream, then drifted like the foam,
A story started, then was lost, a brief display today.

The loyalty of ancient looms, where threads were woven tight,
Is traded for quick3e-text embossed, that fades to gray today.

I carved your name upon my heart, you wrote mine in the sand,
A rising tide, a tempest tossed, and washed away today.

No letters tied with ribbon kept, no photographs in frames,
Just screenshots on a phone that's tossed, at the end of the day today.

We seek a love that's perfect, pre-packaged, and brand new,
But real love has a different cost, a price we pay today.

If hearts are just for renting, then no one owns the pain,
And loneliness is what we've gained, in the price we pay today.

Reflection:

We live in a world of instant gratification. If a relationship requires work, we abandon it. If a conversation becomes difficult, we block the person. If the spark fades, we look for the next match. We treat people like products—evaluating, using, and discarding them when a newer model appears.

But love was never meant to be disposable. The deepest connections are not found in perfection but in perseverance. They are built in the silence after an argument, in the choice to stay when leaving is easier, in the commitment to water the same plant every day rather than always looking for a new flower.

Technology has given us endless options, but options are not connections. Every time we dispose of a relationship without trying to fix it, we dispose of a piece of our own capacity to love. Real love is not a paper cup to be thrown away after one use. It is a tree that grows slowly, survives storms, and provides shade for generations.

The question is not whether we can find someone new. The question is whether we can find the courage to stay with someone old—to see their flaws and choose them anyway. In a world that throws everything away, the most radical act is to hold on.

DisposableRelationships #ModernLove #Ghazal #EnglishGhazal #Poetry #RelationshipGoals #LoveAndLoss #Commitment #Heartbreak #SwipeCulture #RealLove #EmotionalHealth #MatrubhartiPoetry #DeepFeelings #LoveWisdom #usmanwrites#usmanshaikh

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usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

4 month ago

Love in the Time of Screens

Intro:
We live in an age where a heart is tapped, not touched. Love is declared with a meme and mourned with a "seen" but no reply. This is a story of digital emotions, where the distance between two hearts is measured in the lag of an internet connection, and the silence is louder than any notification.

The Ghazal

The silence of a single blue tick, a story never told,
My eager heart, a captive, in a story never told.

I type out a thousand feelings, then delete them one by one,
Afraid of the cold truth in a story never told.

Your profile picture glows at night, a ghost upon my screen,
A phantom pain, a hollow gleam, a story never told.

The "online" flicker mocks me, then vanishes in haste,
A fleeting, cruel, and broken gleam, a story never told.

I sent a string of heart-eyes, you left me on "delivered,"
Is love just a forgotten theme? A story never told?

These emojis are our alphabet, this screen our only world,
A fragile, virtual regime, a story never told.

We share a million sunsets through a filtered, glossy pane,
But share no single sunbeam, a story never told.

My phone is warm against my ear, a poor substitute for you,
A low-charge battery's final scream, a story never told. .Love in the Time of Screens A blue tick mocks, a story never told,
My heart awaits a warmth that feels like cold.

I send a heart, you leave me on "delivered,"
A phantom pain I silently behold.

We share filtered sunsets, pane by pane,
But share no single sunbeam to hold.

Reflection:
Technology promised to bring us closer, to erase the distances of miles and time zones. And in many ways, it has. We can witness a loved one's laugh through a video call, share a moment with a photo, and say "good morning" the second we wake up. We are more connected than ever before.

But this connectivity is a paradox. We trade a coffee date for a comment, a heartfelt conversation for a flurry of instant messages. We curate perfect versions of ourselves online, but hide our messy, real emotions behind a screen. The same blue tick that confirms a message was read can also confirm a silence was chosen. The "seen" notification becomes a weapon, and the waiting period for a reply becomes a new form of anxiety.
In our quest to be constantly connected, we have created a new kind of distance—a space between the words on the screen and the feelings in the heart. We are learning to love in a world of pixels and pings, where the most profound emotions are often reduced to a "seen" but not felt. And in that space, between sending and receiving, we find ourselves alone, holding a warm phone, waiting for a story that may never be told.
#LoveInTheTimeOfScreens #DigitalLove #ModernLove #Ghazal #EnglishGhazal #Poetry #RelationshipGoals #BlueTick #UnrequitedLove #TechAndLove #usmanwrites#usmanshaikh#DigitalLove

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Quotes by usman shaikh Malali in Bitesapp read free

usman shaikh Malali

usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

usman shaikh Malali posted an update English Poem

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