Why I Write Sad Poems

The worst kind of pain is when you’re smiling to just to stop the tears from falling… Am very good at this even being aware that crying doesn’t mean being weak But i gotta keep a smiling face because some people draws happiness from seeing me smile.
One of my fans approached me one day and asked “Gings you write mostly about sadness and pain thus i know without being told that you’re a sad poet But on many occasions I have seen you from a distance you re always wearing a smile making me to ponder on what inspires the sad and broken poems…….
I really cannot give you a definite answer.
I’d be lying if I said I knew.
But I can express why,
I think it’s essential…..
I jot it down to avoid sympathy,
The pathetic looks on my face when I shed a few tears.
Literally the judgments in their voices I try to avoid
So their condolence doesn’t get to bounce back and forth in my heads for days without end.
“And that’s the thing about pain,
It demands to be felt”
Instead of hearing my reasons just to respond,
You get to read it
And maybe understand what it is that is eating my soul.
It has picked at my flesh for so long
I have got the cuts to prove it
I don’t need the quiz.
I don’t know what I may need at that moment,
I think its chocolate……
Oh no, it’s wine…..
Nope, that’s not it……
I need to be held,
No words just silence,
Hug me tight till it all ends.
But that’s not why I write.
I write because it’s better putting words on paper
Because it becomes evidence of the hardship I’ve overcome,
A reminder to me of how far I have come to be…
So…..For as many as they
That judges me everyday
Because I pour out my sadness
Just to make it clawless
I don’t wish for you to understand
For my pains you can never withstand
Just read my pains in written words
But never you wish to live in my world
For nothing dwells there
Nothing my dear
Nothing but pains
Real pain

Of Time and People

Time flies with unseen wings

or may be it has a chariot pulled by the horses;

horses that come from the land of hundred Suns.

where there is no difference of day and night;

or seasons and weathers, and it is impossible

to tell one hour from another. That is where

they would want to pull it away.

Away from all of us mortals

begging more and more of it,

when all we get is some sand of time

knotted, tight together –

in the glowing cloth of false hope

with a hole in it.

So, every time we try to tie it harder

to not let more of sand slip away,

we only make it slip faster

with nothing adding up for us

but knots of agony; and thus

the time flies away.

Author at Sanjeev Kumar Pandey's Blog

My Desire


The fight to be holy I have always fought

Striving daily to remain firm to the course of which I was bought

The ultimate prize paid with the highest price


My creator demands i be holy

For he is holy

But my weakness seems to get the best of me

Leaving me broken at the end of  it all


Sometimes it seems am so close to being holy

But flesh never lets me be

Nothing is wrong with me

All I need is a heart like my savior


A heart so strong like the wind

Filled with love

So pure

A heart like yours is what am searching for


Lord you know my heart

And you know how i desire for you every second

I know am not all i can be

But I know i will make it


For as long as you stay by me all day

I will remain strong

And fight till my last

But I need a heart like yours Lord




I heard of this world from where i come from,
Please give me a chance to explore,
I have longed to walk on this soil,
Please let me accomplish my dream.

O my mother mine,
For you were not persecuted by thy mother,
I will be punctured,
I will be torn apart,
My new bones will be broken,
My spick-and-span flesh ripped off.

I can’t voice out my distress,
For i am dumb,
But i speak with a heavy heart,
I don’t understand any language yet,
For i am deaf,
But when i heard “ABORTION”
I understood clearly because that’s the only reason i can cry in your belly.

What Is Life? – Poem by John Clare

What Is Life? 

And what is Life? An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream.
Its length? A minute’s pause, a moment’s thought.
And Happiness? A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

And what is Hope? The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow’ret of its gem -and dies;
A cobweb, hiding disappointment’s thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.

And what is Death? Is still the cause unfound?
That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?
A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.
And Peace? Where can its happiness abound?
Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.

Then what is Life? When stripped of its disguise,
A thing to be desired it cannot be;
Since everything that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.
‘Tis but a trial all must undergo,
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man’s denied to know,
Until he’s called to claim it in the skies.

by:John Clare


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