Turning a New Page

As the lonely boy lies curled against the wall, Hoping for a respite from the pain, The thought that keeps him going, a light in the suffocating dark: The freedom of turning a new page.

As the writer crumples the upteenth page of words, Compelled to give through and escape the despair, The thought that drives his pen across the page: The fulfillment of turning a new page.

As the woman crosses the war-ravaged fields, Reaching for the safety beyond the booming weapons of hell, The thought that pushes her broken, bloodied legs: The hope of turning a new page.

There comes a time in a child where the pages of life flutter wild from paths of pain and turns of disdain from bouts of glory to moments engraved in memory the constant cries of the sinners so incessant plaguing the youth ever so effervescent we are shrouded in the darkness of ignorance owing to humanity’s unholy penance the poisonous ego of the individual and the cunning apathy of of our race forms a viciousness so habitual surmounts to battles a child has to face alas! a doom may indeed be prophesized but a cure lies in the depths of calamity the depths reached through the purity of a child which can rid us of our profanity it’s up to the children of today to turn to pages of tomorrow turning a new page to humanity rooted in values of child-like purity

I turned a page today or something like it. The corner folded clean, no trace of what it held. The words behave themselves now, sit neatly in their lines. No sudden slips of meaning, no ink that runs too far. Still, sometimes in the margin, there’s pressure without a mark as if a thought once rested there and chose not to remain. It’s nothing you could point to, nothing you could prove. Just how the paper softens where it’s been held before. I read it like it’s ordinary. I let the sentences pass. But something in the silence lingers just a little longer. I close the book or so I say, But some pages don’t turn away.

Life, a tapestry of stories intertwined. Some common yet some of a whole different kind. A journal of pages, worn and torn. The author, a child, from when they were born.

A tale that follows from cradle to grave. Invincible, are those that end brave. For trials will linger all along And pull you away from where you strive to belong.

Yet fingers linger on pages once known Tracing ink like it’s carved on stone. But something within starts quietly to shift, A tremor of change, a hesitant drift. The ink of the past begins to release, Its grip grows lighter, its echoes find peace. The weight of “what was” no longer remains, Just fragments of stories and softened refrains. A silence appears—untouched, undefined, No echoes behind, no script pre-designed. And there, in the hush where nothing has stayed You become the hand… and the unwritten blade.

Between the last word and the first, a breath the universe holds long. The self, unmade, unquenched by thirst, becomes the silence before song. What burned was not the whole of you, only the name you wore too tight. The page turns white the way dawn's dew dissolves into arriving light. Write nothing yet. Just feel the blankness. Even the ocean stills before it broke. Some depths are born only from darkness some flames rise only after smoke.

It’s that time of the year again, Changing grades and starting new, Arriving at the last stage of school, The last dance conquered by a few.

Old leaves shed and new ones get a base Everything changes in a way Achievements take place in our case As we grow to our maximum

The world changes a lot, People might say its just a grade, But the pressure of 12th is not easy, The students stay afraid.

Turning a new page could be better, For people looking for a new space, As it brings them good luck Like an angel on the heaven

Wounds, cuts, betrayal washed, secrets, whispers, gossips hushed, New year, new mind, a new start, Focus and aim the dart, Become one of a kind, Patience to unwind, No grudges to be held, Broken bonds to mend, Distractions out of the frame, More dragons to tame, Now a fresh slate, No point whining it’s fate, Sky high we must reach, Throw out the blood sucking leech, laughter, fun, memories and more, With a happy sigh we arrive at shore.

Words that deliver so much to feel, Through every moment I learnt to heal. Pages and pages of stories made, Written so that they wouldn’t fade.

Then, new words start to appear, Crafting memories with ones who are dear. Like seeing the moon after long, While it sings its silent song.

Then I turned to the nest page, To find myself freed from the cage. Wasn’t easy but flipped it away, Didn’t want anything bothering to stay.

It feels like just yesterday when I thought this would be my forever, when I hoped things would stay the same, where there was no room for regrets or heartache.

Now, as I turn to a new page, the margins feel wide again. There’s space for mistakes that don’t sting as much, for sentences that don’t have to be perfect, and for stories still waiting to be written.

The old chapters remain, reminding me why I can’t go back there again. After all, those lessons shaped me, made me who I am today.

They’re not shut completely, but they’re not wide open either. They sit quietly in a corner, just out of reach, as I step into something new.