Acrostic: The First Letters Of Each Line Read Vertically Downwards Spell Out My Mother's Name.

hi!! i'm assuming here but are you bengali? because I am and i was just curious

i also really like some of your writings! they're really impactful. i saw in one of your posts how much the entire romantic movement affected you and I wanted to say that really shines through your poems and pieces! the entire writing since you were eleven is really relatable because so was i! hope you always keep writing!

Thank you so much for the compliments! Yes, I'm a Bengali, an ardent lover of Tagore and Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay besides English Romanticism.

My Bengali poems are posted here.

Success to him was to relish the failure of all the inefficacious attempts that altered forms (in the shapes of disheartening remarks, abominations, taunts, agitation, maladies and envious faces) faster than seasons but couldn't resist him moving.

Shayan Das

Trust me, it's not what you've lost that matters, but what you're losing while lamenting over it.

Shayan Das

How is it that each time we fall in life we seek someone else in the same condition to console our inner self?

Shayan Das

If Only (Poem) by Shayan Das

[Artworks/Images: In Bed: The Kiss, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (1892) | Renoir (2012) | Romantic Lovers, Willem Haenraets]

Tell me not you aren't worthy of love, that you're not supposed to love as if we aren't the fruits of it. Darling, hundreds of other people loved each other even before we were born, only for us to see the world and fall in love. Let's not forget that.

Shayan Das

Maybe sometimes we love people vehemently not because we expect that only they out of the 8 billion flesh and bloods can cleanse the bruises of our own flesh, fly us to the greatest height, or bring with them the most benign of days, but because we fear that only they amidst the herd of strangers can rip apart the same flesh, push us down from the same height, and bring the selfsame hours to an end. Perhaps we love not because we dream enough of having but because we're too scared of losing.

Shayan Das

"So, what of next year's resolutions?", I heard my friend ask the other day and found myself stuck in a quiet storm, stirring the ache of all the changes I'd wished for but never lived this year. New days, new weeks, new months, new years—how often I've chased the illusion of 'new', convinced that everything would start from the very beginning—only to find myself, each day, pleading for the following day—begging each week for another week. How dearly I've celebrated the turning of each year, like prophets ushering in salvation, only to discover the freshness of the same calendar fading by February, the corners dog-eared, and promises—so solemnly sworn—becoming ghosts lingering in the silence of unkempt rooms. As if the trees that shed their twigs in autumn do not grow the same leaves with the same roots in spring—as if when flipping pages in a book, the story never retains its plot—as if the mere change of a night could unshackle the chains of a lifelong sorrow.

Shayan Das, New Year's Resolutions

Every road I abandoned is the shortest that leads home today; every star that slipped added some more nights without sleep. The things I battled for are today in battle against me; the birds I pursued are the birds I left behind. "Maybe you never had a dream, and if you did have one, you never believed in it", I heard my friends saying, and all that I remembered were the saplings that were uprooted and planted on lands where most of their kinds thrived, the mouths that were shut with examples of stomachs that dried, the legs that couldn't fold themselves to keep the heads high, and the heads that were taught to dream but never offered the chance to dream freely.

Shayan Das

At the end of the day, the only thing you'll sigh over after making a poet fall for you is that you could not become his first love.

Shayan Das