You were never shaped to quiet your fire,
nor taught to bend down, nor dim your desire.
No love was meant to soften your flame,
no shame was worthy of changing your name.

Your light is not something the world can confine,
it lives in your breath, in your pulse, in your spine.
It speaks without words, it rises untamed—
a truth that was born long before you were named.

And she—she was never carved in your frame,
never destined to mirror your hunger or flame.
She did not arrive to echo your spark,
nor wander behind you, lost in the dark.

Her soul chose its wildness before time began,
a rhythm unbound by the making of man.
Not to become you, nor fade in your night,
but to walk beside fire—and still keep her light.

Your rising was never a storm she would fear,
it lives in the story she quietly steers.
For all that you build, for all you become,
was never designed to leave her undone.

She carries a pride in the depths of her being,
in the silent, fierce truth of her own kind of seeing.
A wildness not loud, yet endlessly free—
a strength that exists without needing to be seen.

And her peace—oh, her peace, so gentle, so wide,
is not something lesser that quietly hides.
It is the earth where your chaos can land,
the stillness that steadies the work of your hands.

You are the ocean—relentless, untied,
a reckless, eternal, and rising tide.
She is the silence that holds what you are,
the unseen force that steadies your stars.

Not smaller, not weaker—no lesser in part,
just two sacred patterns of one infinite heart.
Two truths that were written in different design,
yet bound by a love that outlives space and time.

– Maroof Mushtaq

I was not born for a quiet sky,
nor for a life that passes by.
There is a storm within my chest,
a sacred ache that won’t let rest.

I have known silence, sharp and deep,
the kind that teaches souls to weep.
I have worn nights like second skin,
and fought my wars alone within.

They thought my breaking was my end,
a final place I could not mend—
but even ashes softly claim
a hidden spark, a waiting flame.

For I am made of something old,
of quiet strength, of burning gold.
A soul that bends but does not stay,
a heart that finds another way.

When shadows whisper, “You are done,”
I answer back, “I have begun.”
For every fall has carved in me
the shape of who I’m meant to be.

I carry fire in my name,
a thousand losses turned to flame.
And though the world may turn again,
Resurgam—
I shall rise again.

– Maroof Mushtaq

I am wild—
Not like a storm that comes and goes,
But like a forest no one knows,
Where scars are carved in silent rings,
And fire sleeps beneath all things.

Each burn I carry, deep, unshown,
Each loss remembered in my bones.

I am feeling—
Not in pieces you can bind,
Not in fragments neatly lined,
But like the tide that claims the shore,
Unasked, untamed, forever more.

I spill beyond the lines you draw,
A quiet, endless, sacred law.

I am not here to be made small,
Not dressed in labels, not at all,
Not turned to shadows just to fit
A world that fears the depth of it.

I will not shrink to ease your sight—
I was not born to dim my light.

I have known breaking—
Not loud enough to make a sound,
But soft enough to pull me down,
A quiet fall, a hidden ache,
A breath that felt too hard to take.

Dust filled my lungs, silence my hands,
I stood alone where ending stands.

And there I was—
With nothing left but fragile breath,
A thin, defiant thread from death,
No witness there, no voice, no plea,
Just proof that something stayed in me.

Do not mistake my gentle grace
For something time or pain can erase.

Even the sky, so wide, so blue,
Holds storms it never lets break through.

They tried—
With leaving words and hollow doubt,
To wear me down, to phase me out,
To scatter me like I was air,
A fleeting thing not meant to bear.

But ash remembers where it burned,
And fire lives in what has turned.

And I—
I remembered what was mine,
A hidden shape, a quiet design,
For even shattered things can keep
The truth they hold, the roots they reap.

There is a blueprint in the break,
A form no ending truly takes.

So I rose—
Not like a flame that claims the night,
Not dressed in glory, not in light,
But slowly, like the morning grows,
Through hesitant and tender glows.

I gathered me—
Piece by piece, with shaking hands,
Through unnamed grief no one understands,
Until I held, with softened sight,
The fragile echo of my light.

And from the ashes, still and gray,
I chose the name I am today—

Not what was lost, not what could end,
But what refused, what chose to mend.

I am still wild—
Still vast, still deep, still undefined,
A soul no cage could ever bind.

Still feeling more than words can say,
Still unfolding day by day.

And now—
I do not rise for eyes to see,
I rise because I choose to be.

No longer undone, no longer still,
But shaped by fire, and by will.

I am becoming—
Slow and fierce, with no disguise,
No need for reasons or replies.

For something in me, quiet and true,
Has chosen life… and sees it through.

– Maroof Mushtaq

She knows the truth in quiet ways,
In fleeting thoughts, in hidden haze,
In feelings words cannot quite hold,
In stories never fully told.

Her mind is rich, her spirit wide,
Yet language falters deep inside,
As if her soul speaks in a tongue
Too ancient to be simply sung.

She aches to matter, to be seen,
Not just a role in in-between,
Not just the hands that always give,
But someone worthy just to live.

To be held gently, not for need,
But for the softness of her creed,
To be chosen—not when alone,
But when the heart has many known.

Some souls rise early, bright and fast,
Like morning light that doesn’t last,
They bloom in youth, they claim their place,
They win the world in hurried grace.

But she—she moves in deeper time,
A slower, richer, sacred climb,
Her roots go far beneath the pain,
Where loss and love both leave their stain.

Her path was never meant to be
A life of ease or certainty,
For depth is carved in those who stay
When light has long since slipped away.

And oh, how quietly she grows,
In wounds the world may never know,
In silent nights, in breaking through,
In learning what it means to be true.

Grace does not rush, nor loudly call,
It waits, it softens, it lets fall—
The masks, the fears, the borrowed skin,
Until she meets herself within.

And time, so kind to souls like hers,
Will shape her through its gentle wars,
Till one day she will stand and see—
She is exactly who she’s meant to be.

– Maroof Mushtaq

I did not fail—
I only fell.
For what is falling
But a lesson written in dust,
A whisper from the earth saying:
“Rise, and know yourself again.”
The ground is no grave to me;
It is the page where my courage is written,
The silence where my strength begins to sing.
Not because I am unbroken,
But because I refuse to stay broken.
Not because the world applauds me,
But because I whispered “again”
When everything inside me screamed “enough.”
Every stumble teaches me
That triumph is not in never breaking,
But in gathering my scattered pieces
And standing taller than before.
If I fall a hundred times
Yet rise a hundred and one,
Tell me—have I lost,
Or have I not conquered the night itself?
For defeat belongs only to those
Who choose to stay in the shadows.
But I—
I will rise,
I will walk,
I will climb again.
And when they ask,
“Did you fail?”
I shall answer:
“No—
I only fell.
And every time I rose,
I won.”

– Maroof Mushtaq

The night was thick — like sorrow pressed in air,
And the one she trusted… simply wasn’t there.
She’d held on long in storms that bent her frame,
But love, she learned, can wear another name.

She was the quiet kind — the kind who stays,
Who folds her pain and moves through days.
But even oceans meet the shore,
And even patience can take no more.

She stood alone in that cruel-lit room,
Each stare a verdict, each word a tomb.
No hands reached out, no voices kind —
Just echoes of what she left behind.

They thought she’d fight, scream, curse the skies,
But grief moves soft — it breaks, then hides.
They never saw the war within —
The silent wounds beneath her skin.

He said, “She was forced on me,”
A wound too cruel for memory.
She had crossed storms to reach his side,
Fought against odds, swallowed her pride.

She wore his name like armor proud,
But he stood quiet among the crowd.
When the world turned cruel with judging stares,
She searched for him — but he wasn’t there.

She didn’t look for rescue’s hand,
Just to see one truth still stand.
But he turned away and let her fall,
Let shame and slander build the wall.

He rose — not strong, not brave, not true —
But to destroy what once he knew.
He let them speak, he let them scorn,
Forgot the vows, the love, the morn.

She knelt for him in faith and flame,
And all she earned was loss and blame.
Not weak — no, never that — but real,
She only ever asked one shield.

Now she walks — not loud, not proud,
But wrapped in strength they never allowed.
Her scars run clean, her steps are slow,
And there’s a light they’ll never know.

For love, when true, will take your hand,
Will speak when silence scars the land.
It stands beside when days grow grim —
It doesn’t vanish
When it’s her instead of him.

– Maroof Mushtaq

Life owes us nothing—
Not the sunrise we pray for,
Not the hand we reach to hold.
It moves like a river—cold or kind—
Never pausing to ask if we are ready.
I walk through crowded places
With the silence of an old wound.
Faces blur—smiles, shadows—
All strangers to my story.
But maybe that’s why I wander:
Not to find something new,
But to forget what stayed.
The past clings like rain
That refuses to dry.
And though I’ve tried to leave it behind,
It finds me still—
In songs,
In smells,
In laughter not meant for me.
There’s no map for the lost,
No compass for the heart.
Only steps—one after another—
Toward anywhere but where it hurts.
Still, in the drifting,
I sometimes long to meet kindness:
A glance,
A word,
A soul just as bruised.
And for a breath,
I believe
“I don’t stay long—
Not in places,
Not in their hearts.”
I’ve made a home in the quiet corners of joy,
where my name is never called.
I live like an echo—
close enough to beauty,
but never belonging to the sound.

– Maroof Mushtaq

You can’t stop winners from winning, they say—
For even in night, they carve out the day.
When storms scream loud and skies turn black,
They still find strength to walk the track.

You can’t break souls that choose to rise,
Even when hope is thin as lies.
They fall like rain, yet bloom like spring,
And turn each scar into a wing.

You can chain their feet, bind their hands,
But still they dream of brighter lands.
For fire lives in their quiet chest,
And never bows to fate or rest.

They lose, they cry, they ache, they bend,
But never let the fight just end.
Each “no” becomes a deeper “why,”
Each tear—a torch they hold up high.

They are not loud with pride or boast,
They rise where others give up most.
The crown they wear is not of gold,
But forged in courage, fierce and bold.

Try to stop them, if you dare—
They’ll turn your wall to open air.
For winning isn’t just a game,
It’s a soul that won’t die out in flame.

You cannot stop the truth that lives
In those who taste both dust and sky.
The ones who give, and give, and give,
Are made to rise—not made to die.

You cannot stop the soul within—
They’ll walk the paths you fear to change.
You cannot stop a will to win;
Call them dreamers, fools, or strange.


– Maroof Mushtaq

They walk alone through crowded streets,
Their hearts beat wild in broken beats.
The misfits born in silent storms,
Who never fit the common forms.

The rebels, marked by fire and grace,
Who wear no mask upon their face.
They do not bow to rusted rules,
Nor drown their light in halls of fools.

They speak the thoughts the world won’t say,
And dream aloud in the light of day.
Their minds are maps to unseen skies—
They dare to ask the hows and whys.

The round pegs, bruised by every wall,
Who rise again from every fall.
Though mocked for paths that twist and stray,
They blaze ahead, they make their way.

You may not love their voice or view,
You may resist the truths they knew.
But still, they move the stones of time,
And write in stars what once was rhyme.

Where others see a locked, closed door,
They see a chance to build much more.
A better world, a deeper truth—
A call to soul, a spark for youth.

Those called “mad” with fire in eyes
May be the seers in disguise.
And in their chaos, pain, and fight—
The world leans gently toward the light.

So call them names or praise them high—
Still, they will touch the edge of the sky.
For only those who dare to try
Can teach the world how to fly.


– Maroof Mushtaq