Teri Bewafai Ko Us Wafa K Saath Nibhayenge
K Teri Ankhon Say Bhi Aansoo Nikal Jayenge
Yeh Wada Hai K Hum Tujhe Us Mod Tak Layenge,
Jahan Hum Apna Dard Teri Aankhon Say Chalka
Kay Dekhyengeee
Jab zindagi samaj aaye toh zindagi se dur the hum,
marna chahte the par jeene ko majbur the hum,
har saza kabhul ki humne sar jhukakar kasur itna tha ke bekasur the hum….
In the far upper corner of my altar is a photo of Joan Crawford in her most fierce Mommy Dearest mode, just to remind me of some of the cost of everyone's hard-earned sweetness and light.
Muhabbat jhoot lagti hay mujhay
ik khookhla jazba
jisay izhar ki her waqt khuwahish hoo
kahay janay ki
sunanay ki
jisay her pal zaroorat hoo
”mujhay tum say muhabbat hay”
na janay rooz kitnay loog
is jumlay ko sunnnay k liyay baidar hotay hain
ye aisa jhoot hay jis ka sehr
sadioo’n say tari hay
magar janaa’n
muhabbat jab kabhi izhaar ko tersay
koi tum say ager kahday
I have said that poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquillity gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind.
Never get too attachd 2 any1 unles dey also feel d same 2wards u, bcoz
One sided expectations kill ufrm inside... n leads 2 nothingbut a broken heart...
Koi peete hai nasha chadhane keliye
Koi peete hai gam bhulane ke liye.
Na jane kyun duniya kehte hai sharab ko bura
Sharabi to ise peeta hai bas muskurane ke liye...
To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle, every inch of space is a miracle, every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same, every cubic foot of the interior swarms with the same; every spear of grass-the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women, and all that concerns them, all these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.