𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬™

If it’s from you, I wouldn’t care about genre — call it tragedy, romance, or the kind of story that ends mid-sentence. I’d still read it, bleed with it, believe in it. - PTuT

Submitted by - @X_Margrate_X

Can I be the one who noticed you first, in a garden loud with colour and noise, I saw only you, a little wilting, a little quiet, the way certain things are beautiful precisely because they are almost gone. I told myself it was love. Maybe it was. Maybe love and fear wear the same face when you are desperate enough to believe you are the reason something stays alive. So I watered you. I watered you the way guilt waters things, daily, relentless, without listening. The rain was already coming. The season was already turning toward you, slow and generous, the way nature keeps its oldest promises. But I could not wait for what I could not control. I needed to be the reason. And you, soft and rooted and trying, you felt the attention like a debt, something warm pressed into your petals that you did not know how to return, because how does a flower repay a hand that will not stop giving what it was never asked to give? You tried. You opened a little more than was wise. You bent toward me the way tired things bend toward whatever leans closest, not from love, but from the gravity of being cared for too much, too loudly, too often. I called it blooming. It was withering. And when I saw the edges of you darkening, when the stem began to bow under the weight of all my devotion, I did what frightened people do, I plucked you. I thought, if I hold it, it cannot leave. I thought, this is mine now, finally, fully mine. I carried you home like a victory. I did not notice that a flower, once taken from the earth, has already begun its ending. The happiness was brief the way stolen things are brief, bright, then guilty, then gone. And you, who might have lived through the rain, who might have straightened your own spine by summer's end, who never asked for anyone at all, you went quietly, petal by petal, the way things leave when they were never really yours. I withered too. That part surprised me most. I had thought grief was the price others paid. I had thought love, my love, was exempt from the consequences of its own excess. But what I called devotion had no room in it for you, only for the version of you that needed me to survive. Somewhere in that garden, the rain came as it always meant to. The other flowers lifted their heads, opened without being asked, grew without being watched. Nobody noticed the one or the small, dry thing in their hand the thing they had held so tightly it had forgotten how to be alive. They had called it love. But love does not pluck. Love does not drown a thing in devotion and call the drowning care. What they had loved was the holding. What they had lost was never theirs.

for another time you split me into fragments for another time you crowned yourself the argument for another time our shadows stayed apart for another time you numbed my bleeding heart for another time we didn't come close for another time you made me overdose lessons dressed as fate walked in through the heartbreak teaching me not to fall again not to make the same mistakes and for another time this stupid heart will find its way back to you. ~ Girza Mhalib (rare edition)

It all starts when a boy is born, He shrieks, he strives, he shouts, he's grown. But with the boy the man grows father, He softens and calms as per the order. He starts feeling lonely and sad, [The kid] Thank you society !! His emotions are dead. Becomes a rebel in order to escape, Can't find a way in this viscious lake. The kid starts growing, he is mature, Now he understands his father's nature. To be a man, you must muster courage, Enough to be calm and to channel rage. A man's nature is like quiet junction, But sometimes, he needs eruption. Resilient, Serene, Forgiving is a man, Holds his breath as soon as he can. Pen name - A.Riley

cab arrived, pack your bags, three, two, one— come down to the earth. come alive, paint the sketch you made, the one i’ll never let fade dead. three, four, five, i see you in the stars, but you will only come that far. cab arrived, pack your bags, three, two, one— come down to the earth. ~ Girza Mhalib

which is pretty saddddd?

hot summer day outsideeeeee....we ran to play with an ice tray cuz it's a holiday ice melted fast before it touched our drink sun zapped it so quick it vanished in a blink hot summer day insideeeeee....we marched back home jumped in the pool and now we're cool!!! ~ Girza Mhalib

I call myself unfit for human relations, for I haven’t saved a single one from breaking apart. Their actions felt like daggers in my chest. And those words they were the knife, twisting deeper and deeper, leaving a harrowing wound. And now I sit, writing poems under the weight of it all, trying to silence the endless echoes of what ifs and whys, striving hard to survive the rejections, the regrets, the resentments as if I am made of them. I try to escape, but I am trapped in my own woven web of doubt, dread, and despair. And the more I struggle, the tighter it pulls every action a thread, every reaction a knot I cannot undo. The silence is never silent, it hums with everything I wish I could forget. Even my breaths feel borrowed, heavy with the weight of things I never said and things I should have never felt. I am both the prison and the prisoner building walls I do not know how to break, watching every connection slip through my hands like something I was never meant to hold.

The crack in the mirror Thats what ive been my entire life, never wanted, never looked for. The destruction of beauty. Ive always tried to look at the bright side, but no one wants a crack in the mirror. No one ever wants to be beside the hole, the ugly shatter, the glass of wine spilled on the carpet while the glass lays there shattered, the carpet from its beautiful off white to a blood stained mess, while I lay there, no emotions, staribg at the ceiling while everything turns dark, no 7 minutes of good memories. Just asking God why me, why did it always have to be me. The crack in the mirror. Tossed out. Nice to take moody shots once in a while but tossed out afterwards never to be seen again. Just to be burnt down and kill the world slowly, causing the sky's to turn into an ash gray. Where the sunshine doesn't pass through. Where the is no light anymore, a burning torch would be extinguished immediately through this storm. I hate this, I never asked to be this ugly and shattered and hurting to everyone and anyone. All I wanted was to be loved and cared for. Im sorry. Im sorry that I am, the crack in the mirror. - By @Hokkaidoice

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About - Whispered Verses Whispered Verses is a public space for sharing writing without barriers. You submit your work in @WhisperedTalks and it gets published for others to read. The focus stays on clarity, honesty, and original thought. You can share: - Poetry - Personal reflections - Essays - Short stories - Observations from daily life The goal is simple. Give your words a place where they are seen and read. You do not need to be a professional writer. You need to express something real. Readers come here to find raw ideas, different perspectives, and meaningful expression. Writers come here to be heard. Consistent sharing improves your thinking and your writing skill.

Hey reader's, This is my first time writing something like this-- So it's a short self written memoir, pls do read it and lemme know how it is...I'd be super grateful if you all do so. Takecare everyone❤

𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐬™ pinned Deleted message

How beautiful and how terrifying that night was. The silence felt like it was listening, but I knew it wasn’t. I spoke anyway. I told words to the air, because if I had held them inside any longer, they would have rotted me from within. I remembered what we said that evening. That if I lost you, I would never find anyone again. I said it as if I were predicting my own fate. You laughed, maybe you dismissed it, but see how right I was. There was no one. There had never been anyone. It was always me. I walked alone before you, I walked alone after you. And that emptiness, that constant reminder that no one looked after me, sat in my chest like a stone I could not move. You, though you were always going to have choices. People waiting to comfort you, to hold you, to tell you that you were still loved. And I wanted that for you, I wanted you to be surrounded by hands that tried to do what mine once did. Maybe some hands did even more. Maybe they already had. And then I saw you. Stable. Laughing again. You had returned to life, to the light of people who cared, who called you, who thought of you in the morning. And I was there, a year later, still pacing the same dark corridors of my head. It wasn’t jealousy, no. It was the sharp edge of truth. That I had been right when I said it. That for me there was no one. That the world did not come forward to cradle me when I was falling. The world let me break quietly, without ceremony. So I sat with that night. I told it the story of how someone could vanish from another’s life and return to their own laughter as though nothing had happened. And how someone else, stayed in the same place, still carrying the weight of a promise spoken in half-light, still haunted by the sound of my own voice saying: if I lost you, I would never find anyone. And the night did not answer. It only listened, or pretended to, and held me there in its hollow silence. - Shivam

Salt Fed the Crown It was summer heat forged skin into molten chains, wounds blistered like slow-burning pyres, even the wind tasted of sweat, salt, and the metallic scream of flesh igniting bodies torched beneath fractured crowns, buried in ash-dark soil. They never wiped salt from our plates claimed it sharpened flavor. But never from our torn flesh. They let it fester, watched the burn bubble beneath the scorching sun. Half hung like gutted carcasses, half knelt, crushed beneath invisible iron. Whole only in agony’s cold grip. They cleaved us apart, called the shards manageable. “Salt it well,” they hissed. Brown flesh wears bitterness like armor. Brown skin bleeds silent fury. We were feasts laid on slabs of pain, wrapped in death’s hush, garnished with cracked bones and surrender. They feasted swallowed our broken bodies whole. Fed empires with our collapse. Drank our screams like venom. Centuries steeped in blood and cruelty and still, they licked the marrow clean. Why spare salt when souls were already shackled, branded, auctioned on silver hooks at a banquet that swallowed forever? We weren’t rebels we were bleeding wounds, raw and raging. They were ravenous beasts. Salt not seasoning, but scourge and torture. Rub it deep. Tear open screaming mouths. Pull tongues till secrets bleed red. They wanted no truth. Only surrender shattered, shattered surrender. Men on knees, women fracturing, mothers wailing names of sons ripped apart, salted— never whole, only remnants. When asked about freedom, we taste wounds- salted, sharpened, weaponized against us. Bullets were luxury. Salt, ropes, dark cells the stench of burnt skin, death’s choking breath. Dead wounded bodies drowned in saltwater, eyes hollowed, mouths sewn shut. Even oceans rejected them even death was salted. Was it not enough to tear us alive? Why rot us in brine? Why pour salt on wounds long dead, hollowed out? They never begged not when salt made them convulse, not when flesh peeled away, not when the Crown leaned close and spat, “Speak, dog.” Now they wear crowns in our hearts beyond flags, beyond empires, beyond death. You, Empire your crown rots, encrusted in salt and shame, You taxed what fed us. Seasoned pain, marinated your legacy in grief still couldn't swallow us whole. We marched salt grinding like grit in wounds, salt scarring marrow-deep. We shattered your laws with grains our defiance cracked stone and shore. And still we ask: how did we taste? How did you feast on dog flesh, how did you feed your hunger? And the sun sank a corpse bleeding out in the sky, and summer whispered back its merciless return. - Achu B & @I_Krystel (@Krystell_3)

When the Bin Bleeds I've found a journal in the bin, not the kind kept within four walls, but sewn from a thousand stitches, its only sight a dagger dragging back and forth through the chest. 5th of autumn I’ve abandoned my house long ago. Now, the shade of an autumn-stricken tree is my only roof, sitting under the shade of withering leaves, falling on my skin, their scent quickening my heartbeat. Each time the scent of autumn stirs my chest, my nose bleeds with air I no longer share with them. And then the thought strikes my chest is nothing but a rusting bin, long abandoned by my body, feeding itself to grow skin for another. filled with torn, red-stained pages from a fleshed journal I’ve craved away, those living pages I once trusted, people I poured myself into every time I felt too much. The ink drags them down, rock-heavy, smooth, raging lies pressed into every fiber. Once, I bled my misery on pages of cellulose. They were read, and laughed at, by soulless souls. I let my wrist bleed, pumping blood into their heart, tore the pages stained with my own wrists, and buried them deep inside my chest. I no longer bleed on cellulose, but into ears that neither judge nor speak back just the way paper was silent to my deeds as they never cared enough to carry my pain in their minds, letting it slip from ear to ear, their eyes remain the soulless I’ve ever seen eyes that burn no less than hell. I’ve often wondered if the cellulose could speak, would it call me insecure not to my face, but behind my back? Would it whisper aloud the screams I poured into it? Would it gossip with other flesh of my father, behind my back, apart from me? just like soulless souls I once called soulmates mocked my misery before other souls, making them mates of their own souls, while speaking of how rotten mine was, as if my pain was a fault to be scorned? So now, I no longer bleed onto cellulose, nor into the fleshed journal’s eared pages. Each time the air bites cold, and autumn breathes on my face, my nose spills red, and the past shoves a torn page into my hands, pressing it against my skin as if daring me to bleed again into someone else’s ears through penning down on my skin with blade and teeth. - Achu B

I'm Baptized as Love She says I wake in beauty and I know it’s the way she looks at me baby curled in her lap. I carry sallow irises, tired things that only bloom when they find hers. And in that gaze, so stupidly kind, I become what she calls me 'love'. My nose is ruined by the smog of living but it craves the scent of her untied hair oily, warm, the smell of blossoms. My skin? Not the kind they put in poems. But her kisses God they rewrite me, They touch like belief. My lips taste like cherry-colored alcohol messy, sugary, almost beautiful. And if I ever wrote, "I’m probably not the man she should be loving at all." every poem in her eyes would lose its words. Each time I faced the mirror I kept unloving my heart. when I was tired of being held I wore my insecurities, like scabs I wouldn’t let heal. I wished love would die quietly, inside me. I wished I was never loved. I wished I ever knew how to. And still, she lulls me to sleep in the warmth of her lap. Maybe she’s in love with the baby I kept killing inside me. Or maybe what they say isn't true love isn’t blind. It sees me. It listens. And then it speaks in the poetry of her eyes. - Achu B

he says i am pretty and i know he lies, i've got pimples on my cheeks and dark bags under my eyes. my nose is a little pointy and my skin’s not fair my lips seems to be thin scars hidden by makeup layers. my hair doesn’t flow straight and i'm not even tall i’m probably not the girl he should be loving at all. i keep spotting my flaws each time i face the mirror i wish i looked better i wish i was prettier and still, he tells me i'm pretty, maybe he’s lost in his mind, or maybe what they say is true that love is often blind.