I am so undeniably lonely, so unspeakably unlovable. I am a woman of strict boundaries in a world that thinks it owns my body, soul, thoughts, values, future, life, and destiny.
I am so unbearably rebellious, so undesirably human.
I am a woman shaped by defiance, by solitude, by understanding, by empathy, and this combination is indigestible to a world built on oppression, control, and inhumanity. I am a human in a dehumanizing society.
And I fight to stay a human in a dehumanized world.
A Muslim fails — you stain Islam.A Christian messes up — you mock the cross.
A Jew makes a mistake — you curse Judaism.
A Sikh stands accused — you question the entire faith.
Even atheists aren’t spared from your filthy generalizations.
Pahalgam attack 2025
Why? Why do you act like that one idiot is a divine representation? As if they’re some walking scripture or the creator of that particular religion. They’re not your God. They’re not your Prophet. They’re just a flawed, insignificant human with a name.
And if you still can’t tell the difference, you’re not just ignorant, you’re a disgrace to human evolution. Your logic is so rotten it belongs in a museum of stupidity. You cry about respect, but spit on beliefs you don’t even try to understand. You point fingers with filthy hands and a mouth dripping with hate.
Maybe this species, the one made of mindless, hate-breeding parasites, does need to be erased. Not with kindness. Not with lectures. But with a brutal reminder: you are not righteous. You are not awakened. You’re just loud, lost, and pitiful.
Religion isn’t the problem, people are.
For every Hindu doing something wrong or going against his belief system, there’s a Hindu on the other side of this world doing something right, something kind, something divine.
If a Muslim commits a sin in one corner of your country, there’s another Muslim in the same land, or across oceans, saving a life, feeding a stranger, or praying for peace.
When a Christian stumbles into darkness, there’s another one somewhere being the light for someone else.
If a Jew is accused of cruelty, there’s another Jew breaking bread with the broken, healing what hurts.
When a Sikh slips, there’s another standing like a warrior for justice, equality, and love.
For every sinner tied to a religion, there is a righteous soul living by that very faith, proving that the religion isn’t the problem. It’s the person. It’s their choice. Their free will
And no matter what they label themselves — Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Jew, Sikh, or atheist, if they go against the core of what they claim to believe, that’s not a reflection of the religion. It’s a reflection of their own failure.
Because no religion, not a single religion, teaches you to hate, to kill, or to divide. The moment you choose violence in the name of faith, you’ve already abandoned it.
More times than I can count, I’ve witnessed people of the same religion abusing, hurting, and even killing their own… turning on their own brothers and sisters in faith… and then disguising it.
They utter words, wear symbols, or frame the scene to make it look like it was done by someone from another religion. Why? To spark chaos. To light fires in peaceful places and turn communities into battlegrounds.
I’ve seen this tactic used like a sick ritual in politics too, where a party assassinates its own members, only to blame the opposition and play the victim card just to fan hatred and gain sympathy. They don’t hesitate to sacrifice a few sheep to “protect” the herd — that’s the sickness of their mentality. They justify murder with strategy. They call betrayal “tactics.”This is not faith. This is filth. These are not people of God. They are monsters, in the garb of whatever serves their agenda.
You must understand: this is a game. A dirty, strategic, bloodstained game played by power-hungry inhumans who do wrong in the name of religion, even when they don’t follow that religion at all.
These people are not believers, they are manipulators in disguise, wolves wearing whatever skin gives them power. This isn’t religion. This is propaganda. And yes, while harm can come from outside your belief system, don’t be naive, often, the ones tearing it apart are sitting within.
Sometimes, the traitor praying beside you is the one planting the bombs. Sometimes, the traitor praying beside you is the one setting the fire, wearing your name, carrying your holy book, but preaching hate disguised as belief. And people of any religion can do that, because, again, they believe their version of reality, their inflated ego, and their hunger for control should rule the world.
Let’s get this straight: no religion holds a monopoly on evil, and no religion is free from those who twist it to justify their darkness. You want someone to blame? Blame the person. Their choices. Their sick will. Their rotting character.
Because if religion truly lived in their bones, flowed in their veins, and sat with weight in their hearts, this world would have been a paradise. There would be no abuse behind closed doors. No partners betrayed. No children crushed. No dreams butchered by the hands of those who claimed to love God. If religion truly meant something to them, they wouldn’t be preaching with blood on their hands.
So no, it’s not the name they wear around their neck. Not the holy book they post in their bios. Not the prayers they mumble for public applause. It’s them. Their soul. Their choices. Their conscience.
Because tagging yourself with a religion doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t make you a human with a functioning heart and a thinking brain.
— Sadia Hakim
Poet’s Note
This poem reflects on how people misuse religion to spread hatred and violence, regardless of their faith. It challenges the idea of blaming entire religions for the actions of individuals, urging readers to recognize that true religion is about compassion, not division. It calls for accountability, highlighting that personal actions, not religious labels, shape our world.
You are my sunshine breaking through clouds. You are my sunrise rising through mountains. You are my dawn chasing away shadows. You are my rain softening the drought. You are my compass pointing me home. You are my garden blooming through ruins. You are my river cutting through stone. You are my armor shielding my heart.
— Sadia Hakim
Poet’s Note
A love letter in metaphors — this piece captures the strength of someone who feels like safety, renewal, and direction all at once. It’s about the kind of love that heals, grounds, and transforms us even in our darkest moments.
We die a million times to live once, while the goal should be to live a million times to die once. Reality steals the first; dreams gift us the second.
— Sadia Hakim
Poet’s Note
A poetic reflection on how we die a thousand emotional deaths just to feel alive once — when it should have been the other way around. This quote explores the cost of surviving reality versus truly living through dreams.
I discovered today that one of my favorite content creators recently had plastic surgery, and it shattered something inside me. She had given me so much confidence — just by owning herself publicly, focusing on her content and creativity rather than her body and beauty.
It reminded me of a few things:
People who have it all figured out in front of the cameras are often losing it behind the screens.
Everyone is going through something they never talk about, until they finally do.
Never place your self-worth and self-love in someone else’s version or story of self-love.
Don’t depend on others to make you feel accepted in your own skin. Own it like a queen.
Everyone’s decisions are shaped by their life experiences. Don’t judge them, be grateful that you don’t have to make those decisions or fight those battles. Be thankful you aren’t standing where they stood.
— Sadia Hakim
People who seem perfect are often bleeding behind the curtains.
— Sadia Hakim
Everyone’s fighting a battle, silently, until they find the strength to speak.
— Sadia Hakim
Your self-worth cannot survive if it’s built on someone else’s survival story.
— Sadia Hakim
The freedom you have — not having to make the same hard choices, is itself a blessing.
— Sadia Hakim
Poet’s Note
A reflection on learning self-worth after facing unexpected truths. A reminder that your confidence should never be borrowed.
Woe be to the soul that betrays its own heart, that forgets the pulse of justice in its chest, that sells its voice for power and its peace for comfort.
And woe be to my pen if it can’t write about humanity, if it can’t capture the screams, the silence, the broken hearts.
And woe be to my soul if it turns away from the truth— if it lets the world burn without a single word to fight back.
These years have ripped something out of me. I watched children buried in dust while the world debated “context.” Their toys melted, their names erased, and somehow, somehow the ones with blood on their hands still called themselves civilized.
Tell me,what kind of power fears a baby in a crib?
Don’t tell me about democracy, when it folds at the sight of a child’s body wrapped in a keffiyeh. Don’t tell me about justice, when a lynx had more courage than a thousand leaders combined. A wild cat had more humanity than humans.
Don’t talk to me about peace, when the world watched babies die in high definition,and called it “complicated.” When the ones in suits just sat there, inking deals with fingers still warm from handshakes in hell. They didn’t just stay silent—they made silence a weapon. Cold. Calculated. Cowardly.
And humans? Humans sat with their morning tea,scrolling past burnt bodies like they were just pixels. The hashtags fade. The souls don’t.
I’m not here to be gentle. I’ve seen too many corpses to whisper. This isn’t poetry, it’s what’s left after the screaming stops. To the ones who bomb, who burn, who bury, you may silence tongues, but you will never erase the truth written in scars.
To the children in Gaza, you are not forgotten. You were never weak. You were never the threat. You were the test. And we…we failed.
Don’t let social media or characterless people make you believe that you’re getting too old to be someone’s first love. There are many people who haven’t experienced their first love yet, many souls like you who long for one person to spend their life with, instead of switching people like clothes and shoes.
There are those who’ve never let anyone touch their mind, heart, or body, because they too are waiting for someone with spiritual and emotional hygiene.
Just because you love deeply, truly, and without shortcuts doesn’t mean you’re outdated, it means you’re rare. And rare things take time.
You’re not asking for too much, you’re just not settling for half-loves, lukewarm touches, or temporary highs that crash just as fast. You’re not meant for the masses who confuse chemistry with chaos and lust with love. You’re built for the one who sees you in silence and still chooses to stay. So don’t fold yourself to fit into shallow hearts and noisy timelines.
You’re not broken for craving depth in a world obsessed with speed. You’re not weak for wanting forever in an era that glorifies detachment. They’ll tell you you’re too much, too intense, too soft, too serious — only because they’ve never met someone who doesn’t need chaos to feel alive. Let them chase noise. Let them drown in distractions.
You’re made for something slower, stronger, real — the kind of connection that doesn’t burn out in three days. The kind that builds, breathes, and blooms. And that kind of love doesn’t come cheap, fast, or often.
Just don’t let people with poor spiritual hygiene fool you into accepting the bare minimum of the bare minimum as your fate.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw my parents hate me yet love other kids devotedly. More times than I can count, I have sat on the stairs, watching them laugh and tolerate those kids—their most vulgar language, their unbearable moves—and thought: If only they had poured this love and patience into me. It’s okay if they couldn’t. It was their first time parenting, and I was a “nice kid,” saying nothing over physical abuse and emotional abandonment. But why don’t they do it now? They rarely talk without taunts and hatred, yet they love others.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw my best friend, who claimed to have only me as the closest one, have many other best friends. Being played with words of emotion and betrayed by actions of disgust, life taught me what resentment looked like.I never knew resentment until I saw my close friend slander my name in my absence, turning everyone against me when I was ill and away from college for a longer period. She made new friends, hated me for my grades—until I came back, regained the trust of teachers, and she slowly started sitting with me again. Guess what? I ignored it… and got betrayed again.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I was abused, and instead of believing me, my parents said, It’s in your head. It never happened. And if it did happen, they meant not to hurt you, they mistakenly did it, they respect “us” so they won’t do this to you. How would they know? They hardly spent an hour with me in a day. They never saw the way my hands shook, the way I flinched at sudden sounds, the way silence felt safer than speaking. They never asked why I stopped looking people in the eyes or why my laughter became a quiet, foreign thing. They dismissed it like a dream that never existed—like I never existed.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I watched my pain be romanticized in movies, books, and conversations. People whispered about abuse survivors with soft voices, calling them strong, admiring their endurance, as if suffering was poetry. But when it was me—when I spoke of the nights I spent curled up, when I admitted that my own skin felt like a stranger’s, when I confessed that some days I wished to be nothing—they looked away, uncomfortable. Strength was beautiful in theory, but in reality, it was too loud, too inconvenient, too much.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw people easily apologize to strangers but never to me. My parents, my friends, the ones who hurt me the most—never a sorry, never a word of acknowledgment for my pain. They acted like time was enough to erase wounds, like silence was an apology. But the body remembers. My mind remembers. And every forced smile, every ignored betrayal, every “let it go” only carved the resentment deeper into my bones.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I realized that no matter how much I achieved, it was never enough. I could break myself into a thousand pieces, perfect every flaw, excel in every way they once claimed I couldn’t, and still, they would find something missing. “You could have done better.” “Why aren’t you like them?” “97%, alas! Only if those 3% marks…” Their smiles would instantly fade and turn into a courtroom, asking me why and how I missed that 1%, even if I secured 99%. Why didn’t I top the globe when I secured the national level position. Though I stopped trying to prove myself, but the echoes of their words remained, like ghosts clinging to my reflection, reminding me that I would never be enough for someone. I would never be worthy of love and respect and humanity.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw people love the version of me that was easy to digest. The quiet one. The obedient one. The one who swallowed pain without a word. The moment I became something more—someone with anger, with boundaries, with a voice—they recoiled. “You’ve changed, you have become rebellious, you are impatient, you are inhumane, you can’t compromise.”
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I realized my worth to people existed only in their moments of need. Friends who disappeared for months would suddenly reappear in my inbox with a “Hey, how are you?” …but it was never about me. It was about their assignments, their problems, their messes I was supposed to fix. And I did, every time. But when I needed them? Silence. Excuses. Ghosting. I wasn’t a friend; I was a convenience.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I watched people I once called friends rise in wealth and status, only to look at me with disgust. As if poverty was contagious, as if my presence alone would stain their new polished lives. I never asked for a rupee, never even hinted at needing financial help, but the moment their bank accounts grew, so did the distance between us. They spoke in hushed voices about people who begged for money, about those types—and I knew. I knew they saw me as one of them, even when I had never taken a thing. So, I distanced myself, because they weren’t comfortable with me. Their financial status was above me.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I trusted someone with my pain—years of trust, of late-night confessions, of I’m here for you—only to see my words turned into a joke for the world to laugh at. A post on Facebook, a meme, a Whatsapp status, a casual punchline about that girl who cries in their DMs. As if my vulnerability was entertainment. As if the weight I carried for years was nothing more than something to scroll past. And the worst part? They didn’t even think they did something wrong. They pushed me to be vulnerable, made me believe in them—and when I did, it became their entertainment, a topic to be discussed among tens of thousands of Facebook friends.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I saw love given freely to those who earned it through trophies and societal approval. I was hugged, praised, adored—but only as long as I brought home medals, certificates, achievements they could display like a prized possession. The moment I stopped? Nothing. No warmth, no arms wrapping around me, no soft whispers of I’m proud of you. I have been touch-starved since I was born. I could win the world and still never win love.
Resentment— I had never known this feeling until I resented existence itself. My very being. The womb that carried me. The hands that raised me. The body that holds all this hurt, all this memory, all this proof that I was here when I never wanted to be. Some people resent people. Some resent places. I resent being. I resent being here. I resent being in their reality.. I resent being in my reality. I resent not being an illusion. I resent being an actual, living human with a heart, a soul, a body. I resent being existent.
