Pratiksha Dhaundiyal
Poet · Uttarakhand · India
I am a performer in a play titled "Poetry"
A writing journey
I first began writing at twelve years old. I always longed to speak out, yet my environment constrained me. Realizing early on how easily one can become trapped in an endless labyrinth, I refused to remain idle. To surrender, to endure, to articulate—I discovered my affliction in art, and within it, unveiled the remedy.
Published writing
"Loving greed"
Give more than you can offer,
And watch them make you suffer.
Fulfill their needs,
And witness their greed.
Sacrifice your spirit,
And they will crush your soul;
Because greed is their deity,
And you are just the fool.
Carry their rubbish,
And they will label you one
Of all the colored bins.
They will recycle you first,
Because you are the toy,
And they are playing with your trust.
Exchange their affection,
And watch them take control.
Submit to their orders,
And they will get you that role.
You really should sever this connection,
Yet you continue with this toll.
"Non-claimed"
Slowly, the remnants fell off the painting, which was never claimed.
How long will it remain unnamed?
It always seems to remain in the shade,
Waiting for its owner, who went on a trade.
The spare part is now an entangled mane,
As it was treated with pure disdain.
I wonder what they all gained
As they dismantled the pieces in fain.
No matter how much the painting prayed,
It was destined to fade.
Ultimately, at the end of the day,
It remains unnamed.
And the moon whispers to the small frame:
"You are nonclaimed."
"Willow whispers wind"
Breathing by the willow tree—a mellow tree
Which blows winds that carry whispers,
Which carry hope-tinted glows.
The tree is old with emotions it holds,
A heart of gold for all that it controls.
It shadows a home for young and old,
Carries a whisper with the wind like a boat.
Standing by the wind, in a queue,
The quiet ones settle, ready to move.
Sitting by the root, the hues of blue,
The sad ones struggle in a loop.
The engravings, the blues subdued,
The hangings, the attributes protrude.
The whispers and wind blew
To the address the tree knew.
With whispers renewed,
The willow tree grew and grew.
"God gift?"
The hands of the clock hold the crib of a child.
It falls in many ways, in the action of time.
The former attention once lived like a dime.
Needle or knife, it has to abide.
To adjust with the noble, it has to hide
The luxury it got by playing the dime.
Surely, fate has ruined its mind.
But its gold is a magnet for mankind,
Attracting the blind, judged as a crime.