One day, we'll get there,
when our lives are finally
on track.

So we postpone this moment
for another moment,
as if this one
doesn't count too.

Saving ourselves
for the best day,
for the day
we finally reach
the finish line.

So tell me,
Where is the finish line?

But happiness
was never waiting
at the finish line.

Sometimes, life asks
for patience.
Sometimes, it asks
for sacrifice.
But not every moment.

Every choice
asks us to give up something,
yet every choice
also asks for balance.

It's never been
a war between
needs and wants.

It's about intention
knowing when to save,
when to pause,
and when to live.

We keep packing our lives
into "someday,"
forgetting that today
was never meant
to be sacrificed.

Because one day
isn't the only day
that matters.

Today does, too.

CC: Pinterest.

The voice that does not speak loudly,
yet still makes me believe it proudly.

The voice that is always there,
though I do not remember when I first became aware.

It tells me what to do
or what not to.
Sometimes contradicting itself,
creating confusion within myself.

Some days it guides me
like a tunnel light,
other days
it leads me deeper into the dark night.

Inside it lives a library,
endless shelves of memory,
documented in invisible books.

These books act as maps,
architecting various paths.
The voice tells me which turns to follow,
choosing roads from remembered wounds.

It opens old pages without warning,
asking me to revisit them till morning,
showing me evidence
of things that could happen
without ever happening.

Where the past keeps steering the future,
while the present barely gets a chance to nurture.

No one can criticise or praise me
like this voice can.
Its whispers,
echo louder than any noise.

Working so hard every time,
now and then, overtime.
The voice rehearses every line,
rewriting the same scene each night.

The voice speaks
in response to the world,
shaped by every praise,
every wound,
every passing whisper unheard.

And I ask myself,
is this my voice,
or the world speaking through me by choice?
Am I the one listening to the voice,
or the voice listening to me?

Yet every night
it sits behind my eyes,
turning pages
only I can hear arise.

cc: Pinterest

Then, one wave hits the shore,
steals my sleep once more.

Suddenly, that wave turns into high tides,
I feel like I’m drowning inside
my thoughts.

In our twenties, we spend time scanning the tide,
predicting and living
the fears that haven’t arrived.

More than fear of failure,
the fear of not utilising my potential haunts,
echoing all the “what if” thoughts.

cc: pinterest

This tide does not come alone,
a current out of control,
drifting me from my goal,
like thunder of being left behind,
all growing into a storm inside.

No one knows these tiny ripples,
which do not seem that simple.
Everyone only sees the surface so blue,
but not how deep and dark it runs through.

Yet, it goes the same for them too.
From afar,
their sea looks calm and still,
thinking their current is in their control,
and everything is figured out,
that it doesn’t drift away,
that their boat will sail.

But you, watching it from far,
not knowing how their underwater
shifts and turns,
comparing your inner ocean to their calm shore,
you’ll always feel heavier than before.

Tide by tide, it came
and flooded my land.

But then, a lighthouse flickers light,
telling me I’ll be alright.
If I feel drowned beneath the tide,
I’ll learn to swim, not run and hide.
And slowly, as the dark is gone,
I find my way… as comes the dawn.

cc: Pinterest.

The one that lives the future I want,
and the other, planting that seed.

The one that lives in daylight,
the other, stealing the night.

The one unsure, scared, nervous,
of what the future holds,
the other one knows
how everything unfolds.

The one where every door
leads to another shore,
in the other, one desire
seeks them all.

From one, I escape,
to the other, I creep,
to steal a glance
at the world where I stand.

Living in that world
ignites the fire,
to build a bridge
between them,
and make them one.

But sometimes,
when the two worlds collide,
dreaming all the lives
and living them in one,
while the other, the one that makes it happen,
is paused.

The collision of these worlds
brings fear, disappointment, sadness,
what if the other
never gets a chance to exist?

Will these two worlds
ever become one?

Or must I build the door myself
to become what I’ve begun?

cc: Pinterest

Sometimes I imagine sitting on my balcony with a cup of coffee. The wind hits my face and takes me to a station, where I am standing and each train is like a thought passing by. One train comes, halts for a second, and then leaves. There is no turning back. One by one, they come and go, and I just sit there, observing everything.

But one thing I have noticed about myself is that I am very adaptable. When I shift from my hometown to a completely new city, I feel unsure and nervous about how I will settle there. But once I arrive and adjust, it becomes normal for me.

That makes me wonder about the feeling of missing something. Sometimes I ask myself, what does it actually feel like? I know it’s not a loud emotion. Maybe it’s subtle, unlike happiness, sadness, or anger. Or maybe it leads to all of them.

Sometimes I say things like, “That trip was so fun, we loved it so much.” But does that count as missing it? I don’t know.

Like meeting a long-distance friend after more than a year, what should that feel like? For me, it doesn’t feel very different. Maybe because we talk often through messages. Even when we don’t talk for months, I feel like they are still present in my mind and imagination every day.

With places, it’s different. When I have to leave a place, I feel devastated. I think about all the memories and emotions attached to it. I don’t want to leave. But once I reach the new place, I feel sad only for a day. After that, I slowly adjust, and soon the new place also feels like home.

Maybe because I am so adaptable, I don’t fully experience the feeling of missing something.

I’ve noticed recently that I rarely say “I miss you” or “I miss those days.” And when I do, it feels like just words, like offering an empty cup to someone. Words without real feeling.

Or maybe I just don’t understand it yet. Maybe those small moments when I revisit memories, that is what missing feels like.

I’m not sure right now. But maybe one day I’ll understand it, or feel it deeply and experience that kind of luxury too.

cc: Pinterest.

Are my dreams too high,
or just a lie?

Sometimes everything feels planned out,
until one small doubt
comes in and shouts.

And my little blanket fort
falls and distorts.

Is it really that weak?

Yet I stand again,
make it a little stronger,
hoping this time
it will sustain longer.

I try so hard, so tough,
but it never feels enough.

Dreaming big is expensive
it makes me feel
I’m always short on currency.

We laugh around
just to calm ourselves down,
trying to escape somehow,
wishing for a way out.

cc: Pinterest

I want to endure this pain,
so one day I’ll see success rain.

So I sit on this train,
not knowing where to go,
where to stop,
or if I’m already lost.

Should I get down at a station,
change direction,
take another train?

These thoughts come,
and suddenly I’m caught again.

Still, I carry them all
in a suitcase,
and join this race
at my own pace.

But that one “what if”…

What if, even after all the sunlight
and all the rain,
my dreams never bloom?
Will I ever be able to endure?

Even your passing lines
become truly mine.

What first felt reassuring,
a fragile peace I kept securing,
with time, it grew deeper
in my mind, it always whispers.

It settled in my heart,
became a part of who I am.

From time to time,
when those words return to mind,
they light something up inside.

And in the same way,
my words try to portray
meanings and feelings
too heavy to weigh.

cc: Pinterest

Words are powerful,
but if never followed
by actions,
they slowly lose their weight.

The way your eyes convey,
I understand.
The way your smile says,
I am here.
The way your actions
give voice to your words.

But words may promise the world,
yet your actions
are the only truth I hold.

The desire to be understood
grows in me day by day,
wanting to be seen,
yet never trying to explain.
It feels like an invisible pact,
to simply understand, quietly intact.

Everyone wishes to understand,
but not all reach out their hand,
not all can see, not all can try
to read the silence passing by.

I think I understand others
their unspoken words, their shifts,
their silence, their moods.
Or maybe I’m living a lie…
but at least, I try.

Worrying about their storms
creates echoes in my mind,
restless thoughts
trying to fix and to help
or at least to comfort them,
to say, I am here, I feel you.
My heart can sense what yours conceals,
the quiet pain your silence seals.

cc: Pinterest.

Sometimes, I wonder
how can anyone understand me
when I’m unable to unfold?
I feel like I’m left on a cliff hanger,
waiting for one small push to fall,
to finally tell it all.

Maybe that’s why we choose this way,
to hide what words can never say,
or to express what words can’t explain,
in poetry, in gestures, in quiet art,
soft disguises of the heart.
like leaving the door half open wide,
enough for you to look inside,
while I remain where shadows hide.

So you can understand it better
the intensity of it,
not just my words, not just my feelings,
but what they made me,
and how they truly felt.
Because sometimes words are far too weak
for all the truths we cannot speak.

So it feels like you know every bit of me,
and yet,
you don’t know me at all.

And here I am,
finally expressing it
without ever really saying.

Slowly, with passing time,
plans were shared,
our paths crossed more often,
and our worlds began to align.

Small gestures found their way in,
acts of kindness,
toward each other began to grow.
shared laughter,
remembered birthdays,
little details
that only we seemed to notice.

Meanwhile, quietly,
without either of us realizing,
that tiny seed
had taken root.
Day by day
our seed grew
into a little plant.

cc: Pinterest

As seasons passed,
our connection deepened.
The plant stretched toward the light
and soon it bloomed,
flowers made of memories,
petals filled with warmth and love.

But blooming flowers
begin to ask for more.
A little more water,
a little more sunlight,
a little more understanding.

cc: Pinterest

Soon, these small acts of love
became the proof of our care,
the warmth in our efforts,
a quiet showing
of all we meant to each other.

And flowers, once open,
become delicate things.

Even a slow wandering wind
can bruise their petals,
even a passing cloud
can dim their color.

And when one day
those little acts did not come,
the plant felt bruised,
the petals drooped.
It knew the hurt was small,
it tried to understand,
and it waited for the rain again,
for the sunlight to return.

It grew hurt and dull
when the water and sun
did not arrive.

Clouds gathered above it,
and the plant hoped quietly,
for the warmth it once knew
for just a little more love,
and more care.

It longed for reassurance,
someone to protect it
from storms and floods.

But slowly,
in the silence of waiting,
the flowers began to fade
their petals turning dull
and rough with time.

cc: Pinterest

The roots were still there,
but the garden
no longer felt the same.

But why is it different, the one I show to others,
and the one I know when I am with no other?

Emotions are meant to be felt,
whether sad, angry, guilty, or hurt.
Right?
But why, when someone hurts me,
and I responds with silence, distant and cold,
after coming home for what I’ve done or said,
after feeling the storm inside my head,
Why do I feel guilty?
and replay the conversation
like a tape recorder, looping uncontrolled?
I hurt in silence,
yet I return, brave but untold.

Yet that hurt does not come alone
disappointment, resentment, confusion, anger, and
my favourite guilt all hit like waves, come and go,
looking like nothing happened,
but ask the sand, how does that hit feel so?

cc: Pinterest

If I am not allowed to feel that emotion,
or must always regulate it,
and then fail in the attempt,
why do I blame myself?
Maybe it’s small for them,
but why does it ache so much for me?
Or perhaps I analyse it too deeply,
creating hurt out of nothing.

Tell me then, how should I act,
when I feel hurt and disappointment intact?
Should I tell? Should I confide?
But words feel heavier than I can decide.

In my mind, I rehearse the fight,
every confrontation, every slight.
I long to be understood, yet fear to explain,
expecting somehow you’d feel the same.

But honestly, I also don’t want to think,
I always stand for you in this debate.
Maybe they have reason, maybe it’s small,
but once, I just want to feel it all.

I don’t want to regulate my emotions,
I just want to feel them.
Everyone feels this, everyone wants to be understood,
but no one ever tries to truly understand another.
We weigh others by their actions,
ourselves by intentions.
Emotions are more complex than we can ever comprehend,
like this poem, after all,
it’s all about emotions.

Until your hope arrived.
It did not come in a loud way,
yet I let myself sway.

I started forming clouds
with lightning and thunderstorms,
waiting to see
what my garden of life would bloom.

Waiting, waiting, waiting.
Clutching nervously,
forming more clouds
to search for hope
where it was lost.

cc: Pinterest

Sitting on the edge,
sending my own hope.

And when I heard the knock,
I ran toward the door
and opened it,
seeing my hope hollow and alone.

Lightning and thunderstorms faded away.
The garden remained the same.

And again,
my clouds never rained.

what if I don’t sink
in the ocean of my thoughts,
then how will I be wrought?

Why do I autopsy every silence
until it bleeds meaning?

If I don’t dissect
every silence, every talk, every energy,
every word, every shift in mood,
just to tell myself
why it feels heavy on my heart,
then what?

What if I let it pass like a cloud,
see it, live it, learn from it,
and let it pass?
Don’t get stuck in it,
carry forward the lesson
instead of keeping a ledger of hurt.

cc: pinterst

Why am I thinking
when there is no confrontation?
I hurt in silence,
then after some time I forget,
until another meteor
crosses the same sky.
Or we talk, sort things out,
and I feel guilt
for making something small
grow taller than it was allowed.

And when thinking about my own weather
is not enough,
I wander into someone else’s,
trying to figure out their season,
studying their winters,
predicting their rain,
trying to solve climates
that were never mine to control.
What? Why? How did it happen?

My mind knows
it was never mine to hold.

Yet, my heart aches.

To calm my heart down,
my mind sits beside it,
and my mind, helplessly in love,
cannot let it hurt alone,
so it forgets its logic,
and drops its sense,
trying to solve what cannot be solved,
and we stay there,
together,
stuck in the same loop.

So, is thinking the problem?
All these “must haves,” “what ifs,” “ifs,” “should,” “would.”
So what if I don’t think?
Then who am I?

Everyone rushes to her aid...
While I fade, a background blur:

cc: Pinterest

I stand still,
holding my pain like a hidden flame,
wondering...
why would anyone come to me?
My wounds aren’t visible
they don’t bleed,
my hurt has no colour.

How do I show a wound
no one can touch?
How do I explain
that sometimes a smile
is just pain wearing calm,
the quieter way to cry..

By Anamika….

Thank you for reading Unsaid, Yet Felt. Thank you for staying with these quiet words, for listening to what was never spoken aloud. If any line found its way into your heart, then these unsaid feelings have found their voice at last.

So I ask you to show,

what exactly you know.

I think you never,

Even if you stay forever.

Can sense wholly someone,

Your stories know no one.

Which version you admire,

What pulls you wire,

With me,

How do you know my being.

People wear masks,

Polish their scars,

That no one dare to ask.

None seeks to feel your heart.

What you think of me,

How you mold me,

Do you really know me,

Or the Idea you made of me.

And Did you ever try?

To set me free and fly.

I am a book with pages folded,

You read only the open ones.

But how could you know me

When I too dared to unfold.

We never see beyond a smile,

Or what beneath lies fragile.

We say we follow every corridor of yours,

But how, when some rooms still remain locked.

Just see me as me,

Without your lens of expectations,

Or the way you want me to be.

Beyond any limitations.

Yet, their is intimacy of

Parts that remains fold,

The storys untold.

But why still their is desire

To find soul who mirror,

Or Just to be there.

They say time reveals the soul,

And all that it holds.

But time only opens doors

For those who knock gently.

And people change with every passing night,

Will you still try?

Everyone longs to be seen,

Yet no one lifts their gaze.

If innocence crowns every soul,

Then who bears the blame?

The Parts of you,

that shine like the Sun

Can dim the quieter stars,

But I will be your moon,

Seeing the pieces your daylight

Conceals.

And when your shadows hide in dark,

Where even the moon feels small,

I will be your sun,

So even your hidden self stands tall.

All seek eyes to see their soul,

but keep their doors tight

ly closed.

If every soul longs for understanding, who taught us to hide?

• Anamika….

Stay like sunflower and sun: we reach and follow, opening together even in shadows, brightening each other, turning as one.

Stay healthy and strong even in dry days, like gazania in hard sun opening without asking for more.

We close like gazania on dark days and cold nights, holding our memories tight, inside.

I keep three gerberas for you, and alstroemeria in my pocket for the roads we still haven’t walked. I leave freesia along your path.

And if we ever fall silent, may zinnia hold our colors until we return to them.

Though you are far, my zinnia shines, our friendship endures through space and time.

My zinnia, though unseen for days, may words, care, and love still find your ways.

This is what happens when my gardener side meets my poetry side.

• Anamika

  

Thank you for reading and sharing this little garden of words with me. May something here bloom gently in your day.

Lost in another world, Where our thoughts are gently twirled. Living past–preent–future at the same time, Creating a conversation, only mine.

No one hears that conversation, Not even our home walls. So sacred it stays inside the mind, No word allowed to fall.

It holds a thousand shifting moods, Unfolding softly in quiet interludes. It even holds the conversation We never had.

It plants the problem for the conversation, And gently provides the revelation. It never takes a day off, There’s no switch to turn it off.

It runs all night, it hums all day, A worker that never gets its pay. Can you guess the conversation, between whom it’s been? It’s between I and me, Or it’s maybe I vs. me.

The thoughts we carry in the world’s noise, But never give them voice. It’s sacred enough to not share, Or there is no one here to carry it with care.

What do you think? And now it creates another brink, Inviting the mind to slowly sink.

By Anamika

And if so, how often have you shared those feelings?
“I love you” is not just reserved for romantic relationships.
Am I right, or am I mistaken?

We feel for others, we care deeply for them, we love
Them but sometimes, we fail to express this to them.
Or maybe, we express it through actions - In small,
Thoughtful gestures,
In the care we provide.

We can show out feelings in countless ways.
But remain unable to speak it or express it through words.
Perhaps, “ I love you” more than the words can say.
Maybe, “ I care for you” more than the words can convey.
This leaves me in a dilemma?
Do I express my feelings through words,
Or through actions alone?

In the end, I realize,
No matter how much I feel inside,
No matter how much I care in my heart,
If I fail to express it, whether through words or gestures.
It becomes meaningless.

And then another question arises,
We can write our feelings down,
So what holds is back from speaking them, aloud.
Why do we fear the sound...