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Love Shayari in Hindi The beginning of every love if last till last then no one will be hurted.  #NojotoQuote

Mamta Kumari Sanjay Mehta Rajesh Kumar Mahto Gautam Kumar Jagatpal Choudhary #Nojoto #Love #Last #hurt

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सपनाहरु टुटेर गए
साथहरु छुटेर गए

#Last #Moment #Unhappy #Fuck #Nepal #India #Love

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Crazy 8
Visiting her grave was part of my routine. If I returned I would know exactly which wooden box to walk too, in which flower patch her body rests and exactly how far beneath the ground her degrading body sits in harmony with the earth. She was ready to die. She was ready to die six months before I forced her body awake every morning. Before I coerced her to eat her wet soggy food. Before I held her so close to my body and dripped my tears of optimism all over her back. She was ready to die long before I decided she should live.
On September 6, 2010 Mother Nature decided that Idaho was ready for winter. The clouds swirled into a monotonous tundra over my home. The hawks mocked us for not being prepared for winter. It’s easier for them – they fill their stomachs and fly south. It was their time to eat. They flew in circles over my chicken shed meditating on their prey. As I saw the commotion in the sky and the craving of flesh in their eyes I knew it was time to corral my chickens.
My chickens roamed around the ten-acre land as they pleased. Some would make their way into my home on occasions and eat the food off the counters and others would go near the barn and roll their bodies into the hay hiding themselves from the rest of the world. The ones with more exploring initiative would lay on their sides in the middle of the fields like they were born in the tropics – stomach turned toward the heat finding every way to become one with the sun. They didn’t succeed but when I would pick those ones off the ground their heat would soak into my body and I would understand their logic. After their day of roaming the world they would find their way back to the coop. The coop was painted with my neighbors and my love. The names of the chickens were written on the walls and amateur drawings covered all the nooks and crannies. It was comforting to me. I wonder if they thought it was too.
As the hawks picked their prey I was frantic. My mom and I frolicked the land, me in search for all my babies and her supporting hers. I was yelling trying to scare away the hawks but they knew I couldn’t fly. I could never reach them. The sound of my petrified voice didn’t pierce the hawks as much as it pierced myself. There was one chicken missing. Where was the last one? I saw her body frantically trapped on the other side of the fence. I guided her around the fence to the shed and I pushed the last chicken into the shed and slammed the door shut. As the door slammed I heard the cries of a bird. Did I miss one? Did a hawk steal it before I did? But the distant noise wasn’t so distant at all. As I turned my head toward the door the chicken I had just saved from the hawk I had shut in the door. She lay – just like she used to lay beneath the sun but this time it was not out of pleasure. I opened the door and my chicken rest, her neck strutting in multiple directions and her eyes looking at me in desperation.
I convinced my mom to let me buy chickens when I was eight. She said “if you pay for them and take care of them – you can get them.” So, I saved my money, did my research, and found it only reasonable to make a business to pay for my chickens. I would sell eggs and thus my chickens would be paid for. And this is what I did. But the relationship between my chickens and I over the years became less of a business venture and more of a companionship. When I heard the arguing in the house I found solace in the chickens outside. I talked to them like I was a chicken myself. I would tell them my secrets and my fears. They would sit in my lap and tilt their head whenever I said something noteworthy. After I paused they would come in with some of their thoughts. It’s too bad I didn’t understand their language.
My chicken laid in my arms. My mom took it upon herself to make a bed in the warmth of our home. I brought the barely breathing chicken to the bed that was so delicately made and placed her in it. My tears of optimism didn’t cover the chicken today – they covered her body creating a coat of pain and suffering. I’m sure this coat wasn’t ever taken off my chicken – but I pretended it didn’t exist. I’m good at pretending.
In the preceding days, every morning, pre-lunch, lunch, pre-dinner, dinner, pre-dessert, and post dessert I would feed my chicken food that I soaked in water so it was soft enough to go down her broken neck. I wasn’t an anatomy expert but somehow I figured that with a neck that looks like a 90-degree angle it might be easier to eat if the food is soft. My chicken laid there day after day – gaining energy by night. I convinced myself or perhaps I dreamed it – that she was getting better. I imagined her standing up. I craved her leading a happy life – the life that she deserved.
My mom used to say that if she got in an accident and was unable to move or do anything with her life that she would want to die. She wouldn’t want her children spending their lives caring for a cause that we cared so deeply for but that she left long ago. Our family likes knowing one another at our best and at our worst. But when our worst makes others suffer it becomes a problem that affects all those around us. When I ponder the chicken months today – I always wonder if my chicken was like my mother. Did she want me to let her die? Did she want to close her eyes and sleep to her death? Had I stripped her of her one wish just like I would strip my mother?
As her health improved and she began to seem more alert to the world we started having daily sessions. In the morning’s we stretched. I would pick her immobile body up and slowly move her legs away from her body. I would do the same for her feet. I trusted I was saving a child from its misery. I know now that death isn’t something to fear. I feared for my chicken – I’m sure she didn’t fear it. I would put her body to the ground like she was walking – reminding her of a past long forgotten. A past that today she only sees in her heaven. I didn’t put any of her weight on the ground – it was more of a presentation. When she gobbled, I thought she was telling me things. I would listen and try to pick up on her words. But somehow her gobbles never translated to English.
When people visited our home, they wondered why my mother let me keep a dying chicken in our bathroom. You couldn’t use that bathroom because it smelled of manure and death – so people were ushered to the one in my mother’s room. My mom and I thought it was normal. She was a part of the family. I considered her a part of me just like a person would consider their sibling a part of them. My mother felt the same way. Often when I slept in too late my mom would do my job for me. She would help her walk and feed her her wet food. I remember her words ringing in my head “if you take care of them, you can get them.” I knew she believed this but my mother would also check in on my chicken day and night when I couldn’t care for her myself. She is a mother after all. I learned my ways from her.
A month later my chicken could stand up. I never thought her progress would be so vast. Balancing was a difficult task for her. Her vision was off – or at least something was because when she stood up to eat her food – she would go to peck the liquid matter but she would miss and peck the ground instead. It would take her a few tries to get her beak into the bowl. I didn’t know how to teach her without moving her head in the right direction. Sometimes I would place my hands around the bowl covering the ground. My chicken knew when she pecked me – she never wanted to peck me so she would try to find the bowl. When the days were still warm I would bring her under the hot sun to some of her favorite places – to the sawdust where she used to roll or to the blanket of grass where she would heat her body. She loved the days when it was warm. She would place herself near a tree and sprawl on the ground.
Sometimes my mother would come play the guitar outside. Her lyrics penetrated the atmosphere. She wasn’t playing for anyone – or at least anyone I knew of. But I know my chicken would sit under the tree a few feet away from her and she would turn her head, in any way she knew how, to look at my mother. She would tilt her head, a sober sign of listening and she would keep it that way until my mother’s words receded. Then she would go back to sticking her beak into the ground in search of insects but whenever my mom started up again she would always repeat her actions. I think her voice was a gift into a world of pleasure that was absent from her life. My mother’s voice was a gift to more than one.
As time went on my chicken became stronger. She could walk. Her head and neck leaned to one side of her body making her unbalanced. When she could walk, she would only go in a circle. Her circles eventually got bigger and some days she would make it all the way across the yard by way of circles. When I think about spending life only able to move in circles it makes me shiver.
We could never reintroduce her to the other chickens because they would peck her to death. Chickens are cruel birds – or cruel to the human eye. If one has a disability they will peck it until it dies. I couldn’t let this happen – but maybe that’s the way of the chicken world – and maybe that’s what is best.
My chicken would go to the fence and stand at it looking at all the other ones on the other side of the fence. She looked in desperation as if she was so alone – as if she wanted to be pecked to death – as if she was ready to take death. I couldn’t bear to see her own kind kill her and I couldn’t leave her knowing exactly what was going to happen when I left.
By May 8, 2010 my chicken acted as if she had never got her neck crushed in a door. She laid eggs, she only tilted her head slightly and she befriended the less cruel chickens. She still slept in a different place than them, she would still eat wet food, and I would still watch her with a hawk’s eye.
Months later I walked into her bed and she lied there dead. I still wonder what caused it. Was it her age? Was it something from the event that occurred seven months earlier? Or was she just ready to die?
We buried her on the same day and my tears covered the dirt of where she lay. My tears soaked the area – I’m sure they reached her body that lied so far beneath the dirt. Her body lays in the dirt that I shed my tears on today. But, she doesn’t lay there. She is somewhere, in some beautiful place, dancing with the land just of how she always dreamed. A rock lay by her grave and on it are the words ‘Crazy 8.’ We called her Crazy 8. Her name is Crazy 8.

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Akelapan 😓😓
#cancer #lonely #alone #SAD #Feel #Love #Meant #understand #poem #poetryporn #come #sorrow #Last #End

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Read in Caption #NojotoQuote

We the Women
Today, I will tell you about us, the women
How we stick together like yolk and albumen.

You would say, we do catfights, how can we be friends?
I will tell you, but my dear society, please don’t take offence
because the words I will say today
Might make it a long ranting essay.
So let’s begin!

The other day, I got my chums,
College’s first day, but my painful second day!
I had been sitting at my desk for so long,
That I felt, my skirt would paint itself red in blood.
My Friend, you were there when I was too anxious to think wise!
I didn’t know you, nor did you!
But, my anxiety lessened down when I saw you!
You looked at my anxious eyes and understood the rest.
I didn’t carry the thing that we pack in a black polybag,
Shhh! I can’t say aloud, guys are here!
But, today I would say it loud, P-A-D!
Isn’t it too simple to pronounce?

The stain on my yellow skirt was attracting smirks or sympathy,
Feminism had not come back then.
So, I could not walk out of no shame, which I should have had.
There was she standing behind me, walking behind me,
To protect me from those shameful eyes,
Enough to made me feel that I was impure which I was not.
You bought me a whisper while I was on commode in shiver.
It is such a small thing, you would say, right?
But do not the simple things that bring joy in life?

My freind, you helped me to ease things when I needed the most.

It was farewell days at the college,
last few days
#hashtag screaming everywhere.
You wanted me to look little less messy on the day
I didn’t but you imagined me in a black pretty short dress,
tusstle earrings paired with the black heels.

No you got me wrong, I was not a tomboy or I hated makeup,
I just didn’t know how to dress up.

The thought of dressing up,
for a girl like me
who doesn’t know how to tie her hair up with a clutch
Was making me shy
But she was head bent
Yes, deep down in my heart, I knew
I wanted to look beautiful.
So, my crush would finally approach me on the day.

She made the perfect winged line on my eyes,
She fixed my lips, dude!
She made me a beautiful low bun with my messy hair.
Oh, yes, everytime when my bra strap peeped out,
She was putting it under the blouse.
Or held me everytime when I slouched.
No big deal is it?
But for a girl like me who belongs to a society
Where bold makeup is considered slutty
Where girl can’t even buy a sexy lengerie
Because her mom would think otherwise.
It was a gift for me from her.

My friend, you helped me, and I ask all of you,
We all have flaws, but don’t we make up?

People. We, the women, are infamous for catfights
but last month when I was having a tough time in my life, she was there for me.

Inspite of working my ass off for the last one year,
Boss said “Better luck next time” again
Because I didn’t go out with him, yaar.

Inspite of loving a person unconditionally,
my boyfriend left me all alone, sulking and crying,
For a beautiful fair girl,
because I am black.

I don’t hate the beautiful girl,
nor my ex,
I just expected him to voice up,
when his parents denied me,
Because of the reason I already said.

I was burried into my pillow unlike those girls who throw break up party
instead of crying all alone in the room.
I envy them. I so envy them.

So, when I was about to demotivate myself or
Falsely try to go on a hunger strike.
You, my friend, came to me.
Did you hug? NO!
Did you console? NO!

You slapped right at my cheeks just not near my ears
Because you probably love me enough not to loose me.
Jokes apart, I needed that slap more than anything else that day.
Because I was shedding tears for a high-class coward family.
Who thinks my dark skin would make their family ugly.

My friend, you helped me, to make me believe that I am dark and beautiful. Not dark but beautiful.
So, Today I ask you,
Let us create such examples.
Because a single drop creates a ripple.
Today, I ask you, all the women, to promise,
Let’s not judge because she is cool,
Let’s not slut shame because she hangs out alone with guys,
Let’s not insult simply because she can’t afford your lifestyle,
Let’s not corner because she is indifferent,
Let’s not bitch because she wore a low neck top,
Let’s not be jealous about her because she is doing great in her life,
Because, is not the society doing these already to us?


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