Oreos&OxyeyeDaisies

  When the game grows fierce and your steps grow wild, And the world watches, eager, their faces beguiled, If your laces betray you, if they loosen and stray, Know, my love, I’ll be there to smooth the fray. I’ll kneel on the field as the crowd roars on, With fingers tender, though the moment is drawn. Each knot I’ll weave will hold more than a tie.  It’ll bind my devotion beneath an open sky. Your sweat may fall, your breath may race, But I’ll steady your steps in love’s quiet grace. For in every loop, in every thread I lace, Lives the rhythm of my heart, your steadfast space When you stumble on paths no one else dares tread, I’ll clear the stones, smooth the road ahead. When the sun burns harsh and the shadows grow long, I’ll shield your face, humming your favorite song Let the game rage on, let the stakes run high, Let the ball soar like a dream in the sky. But when you falter, my hands will be true, To tie your shoes—and my soul to you. So play with passion, leap, and stri...

 They say he’s out there, sipping chai, Patiently watching the world go by. With calm that could soothe a stormy sea, He waits, he dreams—oh, just for me. He’s kind, intelligent—a walking TED Talk, Yet humble enough to not mansplain a clock. He reads, he writes, he’s sharp as a tack, Doesn’t ghost-text or leave me on "read back." But let’s be real, has he lost his way? Did Google Maps lead his heart astray? I’m here, dear future husband of mine, While you’re playing chess with Father Time. I hope he’s the calm to my hurricane flair, The yin to my yang, the shampoo to my hair. He’ll listen to rants, never cut me off, And laugh at my jokes (even the ones that are scoff). I want him witty—yes, with wordplay divine, And maybe he can cook, because I can’t boil brine. A man who dances when nobody’s there, And shares all his fries, because that’s only fair. Sarcasm? Oh, let him master that art, A witty remark is the key to my heart. But let him be tender, with eyes that just say, “I...

HOW DO I KNOW ALL OF THIS? MUMMA PAPA NE BATAYA AUR FILMO NE DIKHAYA Love in the ‘90s was a different art, When writing a letter took days to start. Waiting days for a reply, hands trembling with hope, A romance built on patience, not an instant scroll or poke Love in the ‘90s was poetry in disguise, A world of simple gestures, unspoken ties. No “typing...” stress or double blue ticks, Just heartfelt confessions with innocent tricks. When eyes met across a crowded school hall, It felt like fate, no algorithms at all. Letters inked with care carried hearts in their flight, Each word a whisper, every comma a delight. You’d sit with a pen, pour your heart on a page, And hope it reached before you turned another age. No swiping right, just a nervous landline call, And praying their dad didn’t answer at all. Dates weren’t coffee shops or sleek, modern scenes, It was the park bench, samosas, and cheap jeans. A mixed tape was the pinnacle of affection, Crafted with patience, track-by-tra...

  Well, don’t you have a five-year plan? A five-year plan?  Listen, I’m just trying to keep my head above water for five days.  I mean,  do  politicians even have five-year plans anymore?  The only consistent plan I have is to open Netflix at night and contemplate why I have to pay for it every month when I barely make it past 10 PM without dozing off. "Kal ho naa ho…" 🎶 – that’s my philosophy on my five-year plan   So, what’s your problem with adulting, exactly? Oh, where do I even start? Adulting is like that Bollywood horror movie – you walk in thinking, “How bad can it be?” And then BOOM, life hits you harder than Gabbar’s laugh echoing through Ramgarh. No one told me my paycheck would feel more like a guest appearance than a starring role. I thought I was signing up for the “Kuch Kuch Hota Hai” kind of life, but this feels more like “Darr.” "Ajeeb daastan hai yeh... kahaan shuru kahaan khatam..." 🎶   Isn’t the struggle worth it if...

I thought I’d be flying, oh so free, Instead, I’m a manager of “Why me?” Morning alarms hit like a slap, I’m just one more snooze from a total nap collapse. Off to the kitchen, bold and brave, Until I remember the milk I never saved. Breakfast becomes a toast and jam fight, Who knew eggshells at dawn were such a sight? Grocery runs are planned with care, But somehow chips and cookies sneak in there. “Balance your diet!” they say on the net, But ramen and takeout are all I get. Laundry? It’s a game I’m meant to lose, Colors with whites? Sure, it’s old news. Shirts become tie-dye, socks vanish on cue, Matching pairs? Not this lifetime, dude. Ah, bills and budgets, the ultimate test, Should I save, or splurge on a “treat yourself” fest? Money slips through my fingers like sand, But did you see the deals? Oh man, they’re grand! Life is a circus, a hilarious ride, Adulting’s a rollercoaster — nowhere to hide. So, here’s to the chaos, let’s raise a glass high, Surviving this mess? That’s no ...

In the fields where cannons roar,   Tolstoy writes of endless war—   Men clash with steel, hearts clash with fear,   History's weight, heavy to bear.   Across the steppes, blood and sky,   Kings may fall, yet men must die.   But deeper still, the war unseen—   The soul's own fight, cruel and keen.   Dostoevsky whispers low,   Of guilt that seeds, of thoughts that grow.   Raskolnikov's dark, whispered crime,   Echoes through the halls of time.   Napoleon rises, then he fades,   Just as Raskolnikov’s blade invades—   The crime, the war, all justified,   In minds where righteousness resides. Yet war on battlefields will cease,   But what of hearts, bereft of peace?   Tolstoy’s peace, a fleeting quest,   As nations fall, and men confess. In Dostoevsky’s darkened shade,   The guilt festers, debts unpaid....

I miss you maa :) I spoke in whispers, too little, too late, Wishing I’d known how near the gate, Where time would close and steal away The chance for words I didn’t say. Unanswered goodbyes linger in the air, Like unsent letters I couldn’t share. Regret's heavy hand rests on my chest, For the moments I lost, the love unexpressed. I thought I had time, but it slipped away, Now I’m left with words I can’t convey. Your chair still sits by the windowpane, But it’s empty now, and so is the frame. Of the life we could have shared much more, Yet I stand alone by this open door. In this hollowed heart of a home, I roam, Seeking your warmth but finding none. The walls are quiet, but they hold the truth— That love delayed is love I lose. Unanswered goodbyes, forever they’ll stay, A silence of regrets, too hard to allay.  "So…," she started, drawing out the word as if it were a string she was about to pluck. "Is there someone? You know, someone more than just a friend?" H...

I own one chair, two forks, and half a cup, But at least my home’s Instagram-ready, so that’s a win—right? (Shut up.) That $700 rug, woven by a monk, It’s so minimalist, but my wallet’s sunk. No more junk, no mess, no chaos in sight, Just the stress of making sure the angles are right. I threw out my clutter, felt so bold, But now I’m broke from buying bowls of gold. My wardrobe's reduced to shades of gray, And somehow it cost more than my yearly pay. Minimalism—the art of owning less, but somehow paying more for the privilege. It’s like the Marie Kondo method met a luxury boutique and had a baby that only wears neutral tones and whispers, “Does this spark financial distress?” Minimalism promises simplicity, clarity, and an oh-so-clean aesthetic, but somehow delivers a paradox wrapped in sleek Scandinavian furniture and artisanal pottery. Because, you see, minimalism isn’t just about decluttering your life. No, it’s about decluttering it in the fanciest way possible—preferably wi...

 KEEP ATLEAST SOME CHAPTERS OF YOUR LIFE UNPUBLISHED In a world where every breath is documented, every sneeze is hash-tagged, and every fleeting thought is broadcast to the masses, the art of being private is akin to mastering an ancient and mysterious craft. It’s like having the last slice of pizza in a room full of hungry souls—intensely satisfying and slightly mischievous.  Imagine your life as a best-selling novel. Now, not every chapter needs to be splashed across the cover. The real intrigue lies in the pages that remain unpublished, the stories only you know. Think of it as holding a winning poker hand while everyone else is showing their cards —sometimes, it’s the unknown that makes you the real player in the game. Why let every passerby be privy to your plot twists and turns? If everyone knows how your story goes, they might start writing their own versions of your narrative. And let’s face it, no one wants to star in a poorly written fan fiction of their own life....

I have always loved Elizabeth, Slyvia, Walt Whitman, [even my mum loved his writing] #1  ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING - IF THOU MUST LOVE ME: Poetic Review  In a sonnet's tender fold, Browning weaves her golden thread,   Where love’s essence, pure and bold, in whispered lines is said.   She asks not for the fleeting glance or charm that fades away,   But for a love that stands the chance to shine beyond the day. Like stars that blaze in night’s embrace, not for the dawn to see,   Her words demand a sacred space where love is truly free.   Not anchored to a smile's grace or pity’s gentle tear,   But in love's timeless, endless trace, she finds what’s most sincere. Her pen, a brush of softest hue, paints love with lasting light,   Each verse a beacon, guiding through the deepest of the night.   She crafts her lines with such finesse, like threads in tapestries,   Where every word, with pure ca...

In the cold embrace of January’s chill , where frost adorns the night,   To be surrounded by just a few is like a hearth’s warm light.   A small circle, close and true, is like a cozy cabin’s glow,   Where every crackling ember tells a story only, they know. In February’s fleeting thaw, when winter’s grip begins to break,   To welcome a few new faces is like a fresh, awakening lake.   Each new friend is a budding flower, just beginning to unfold,   Adding new hues to the winter scene, like threads of silver and gold. As March breathes life into spring with a whispering breeze,   A small circle of friends is like a garden of emerging seeds.   Each one a promise, gently sprouting through the thawing earth,   Nurtured in quiet company, preparing for their bloom’s worth. In April’s dance of showers and bloom, where colours start to sing,   A few cherished friends are like rainbows that sof...

Mari, with her eyes set on the city's heart, Reads the night’s stories in a solitary art. Her world’s a reflection in the neon’s embrace, A stillness that hums in a bustling place. Across the street, where rhythms softly clash, A jazz bar’s echo and the night’s gentle splash, Takes us to places where reality bends, And time’s fleeting threads weave, then blend. Murakami’s prose, a mirror of the night, Reflects the inner world’s soft, intricate light. In the silence between the city’s roar, He explores the spaces we often ignore. From fleeting encounters to existential threads, His words capture the hours where time treads. The city, alive with a thousand soft hues, Speaks in a language of twilight and muse. Each page a moment, each scene a new dream, Where the ordinary becomes a surreal gleam. He maps the stillness in the night’s embrace, Finding beauty in every hidden space. In the twilight's hush where shadows softly meet, Where time bends and hums with a dreamlike beat, Dwel...

In a town called Kasukabe , a legend did rise, With eyebrows so thick and mischievous eyes . From infants in cradles with gums oh-so-bare, To old folks in rockers, with not a tooth to spare. "Yeh ladka toh kamaal hai," the parents would say, When he’d moonwalk through the kitchen, in a most cheeky way. From diapers to dentures, all ages unite, In fits of giggles, from morning to night. "Yeh toh bilkul filmy hai," Grandpa declares, As Shinchan’s drama unfolds, catching everyone unawares. Sarcasm is his shield, Wit his trusty blade, In the game of humor, he's got it made. Masoomiyat ka natak hai,” some critics might chide, But even they chuckle, unable to hide. From his ‘ butt-butt dance’ to his random spree, He’s the comedian we all wish to be. Even the Dadi who knits by the light of the moon,  Can't help but giggle when Shinchan's in tune.  “Yeh bacha toh bahut smart hai,” she finally admits,  As he outsmarts Hiro, in clever little skits. At weddings...

They call him Rude Ralph, the mischief king, But is he as bad as they often sing? Sure, he’s got a laugh that’s loud and bold, But let’s look at the truth, let’s have it told. Ralph once gave Henry a toad in a box, “Just a joke!” he said, amid giggles and squawks. But when Henry was down and feeling blue, Ralph was the friend who always came through. They say he’s rude, but he’s really just blunt, Like a comic book hero on a wild stunt. When Susan lost her lunch, and tears did stream, Ralph shared his sandwich, with extra cream. He’s like a volcano, fiery and loud, But inside he’s as gentle as a summer cloud. Like a firework, he may seem too bright, But he lights up the dark and makes it all right. Remember the time he yelled, “Boo!” at the fair? The lady jumped high, almost lost her hair. But later that day, when she was in need, Ralph carried her bags, a true friend indeed. He’s a bit like licorice, strong and tough, But sweet at the core, if you taste enough. His jokes might be wild...

In the town of Varanasi, where love’s on parade,   Lived Kundan the romancer, a poetic charade,   With a heart full of dreams and a head full of plans,   He’s chasing his crush like a sitcom with fans. He’s writing her letters that she’ll never read,   And gifting her roses, though they’re mostly weed,   He’s proposing in poetry, where rhymes go astray,   It’s like Shakespeare and Dr. Seuss had a bizarro ballet. Zoya’s just trying to live her own life,   While Kundan’s still caught in a world of his strife,   He’s chasing her around with a love so intense,   It’s like a rom-com where logic takes a long holiday fence. BUT............................. In the same lanes of Varanasi, where love's supposed to bloom, Kundan’s steps turned sour, like a scent of impending gloom, He chased after Zoya with a fervor unkind, His romantic pursuits, well, they crossed the line. He lurked in the shadows, in every...

In a grand mansion, all shiny and bright, Little Kevin’s left home alone for the night, His family’s off on a holiday spree, Leaving him with a house that’s one big DIY spree. Kevin’s the kid who’s got plans and flair, Turning his home into a trap-filled lair, With marbles and paint cans, his traps are a hoot, The burglars are doomed—this kid’s on the pursuit! Harry and Marv, oh what a pair, Like two clowns with a penchant for despair, They stumble and fumble, their faces all bruised, By Kevin’s clever traps, they’re thoroughly confused. "Home Alone" is basically the cinematic equivalent of leaving your toddler with a pack of wild raccoons and saying, “Good luck!” The film is a charmingly chaotic tale of a kid, Kevin McCallister, who’s left alone in his family’s lavish house while his relatives go on vacation. Spoiler alert: the raccoons are replaced by two hapless burglars, but the chaos is just as entertaining. Let’s start with Kevin, the pint-sized mastermind. He’s like a...

नाता बेतुकी दिल्लगी से तोड़ना जाने ना आने वाले कल की फ़िकर से जोड़ना जाने ना Under moonlit skies, we dance and sway, Embracing life in a carefree way, With laughter loud and spirits high, Ye Jawani Hai Deewani, we cry. Friendships forged in fires bright, In the tapestry of endless night, Memories etched as time flies by, Ye Jawani Hai Deewani, we fly. With dreams unbound and hearts set free, In the present moment, we just be, Through ups and downs, we dare and try, Ye Jawani Hai Deewani , we reply. So when the journey seems too tough,  And every stride feels not enough,  Remember this, as you wander far,  Mera falsafaa kandhe pe mera basta  Chala main jahaan le chala mujhe rasta. In every breath, in every mile,  We face the world with steady smile. And though the future's veil may hide,  Our spirits strong, we will abide,  Kal pe sawaal hai, jeena filhaal hai,  " Yeh Jawaani Hai Deewani " is basically a roller coaster ride through the theme park of...

Beneath the moon's gentle and silvery light,   Dreams dance with sorrow, in a beautiful plight.   For love, though sweet, oft carries its thorn,   Ae dil hai mushkil, in a heart so worn. The heart, a wanderer in a world so vast,   Clings to memories, of a love that won’t last.   In every beat, a reminder so clear,   Ae dil hai mushkil, yet we persevere. For in the trials of love, strength we find,   In the dance of the heart, with the soul intertwined.   Though the journey is tough, and the road is long,   Ae dil hai mushkil, but it makes us strong. So let the heartache, in its glory, be sung,   For in every struggle, a new hope is begun.   Ae dil hai mushkil, but through love's pure art,   We find in the end, the resilience of the heart. And as we walk this path so free,   With eyes wide open, hearts carefree.   We find the truth, we finally see,...

On Mars, where silence reigns and dust is king, A lone soul wrestles with the cosmic sting. In the red expanse where hope seems faint and thin, A story of survival begins within. So, here’s to The Martian , with its tale so grand, Of a soul who forged his way on alien sand. In its story, a reflection of our own, A reminder that we’re never truly alone. For life’s a journey, as uncharted as the stars, And like Watney’s path, we navigate through scars. With hope as our compass and will as our guide, We conquer the vast unknown with spirit as our stride. In a world where countless films flicker across screens, The Martian stands out not merely as entertainment but as a metaphor for life itself. Its narrative, centered around an astronaut stranded on Mars, transcends the boundaries of science fiction and becomes a reflection of our human experience. At its core, The Martian is a tale of relentless perseverance. Mark Watney, played with brilliance by Matt Damon, is faced with an inhospitab...

Oh, the irony of critiquing verse while penning praise for prose, as if my poem's the perfect medium for what it opposes! WHO CARES!!!!! In the realm of words where rhythms collide,   Poetry dances, its form tightly tied.   With verses and stanzas that rhythmically play,   It molds its emotions in a structured ballet. But prose, oh prose, how it gently unfolds,   In the vast expanse where freedom beholds.   It speaks in a voice that’s unconfined,   Where feelings are captured, raw and refined. No need for the rhyme, no meter to bind,   It flows with a freedom that’s truly unlined.   Thoughts are unraveled in their natural grace,   With prose, every nuance finds its own place. In poetry’s realm, the lines must conform,   To a cadence and beat that shape and transform.   Yet prose, in its essence, remains unrestrained,   A canvas of thoughts where emotions are plain. It ...

 In the quiet of her room, dreams took flight, A young filmmaker spun tales in the night. With passion aflame and a heart full of light, She painted the world in black and white. Each day she crafted scenes with care, Directing life with a visionary’s stare. Angles shifted, stories refined, A cinematic universe uniquely designed. In shadows and light, her stories unfurled, Visions of grandeur, a new, vivid world. A lens in her hand, an artist’s pure gaze, Transforming the mundane into a dazzling blaze. But fate’s cruel hand came, dark and swift, Snatching away her dreams, her precious gift. A life full of promise, cut far too short, A storyteller silenced; dreams left to thwart. She'd wake each morning, with a script in mind, A new narrative, fresh scenes to find. Adjusting the angle, perfecting the shot, Every frame a masterpiece, each line a thought. Yet now her room lies silent, cold, No more stories left to be told. The camera rests, its film unspent, A poignant symbol of dream...