Anup Dahal

Anup Dahal Poems

Anup Dahal Biography

Anup Dahal (Psycho Poet) A voice carved in ink and silence, Anup Dahal writes not merely to fill pages, but to let the unsaid breathe. Known to his readers as Psycho Poet, he blends tenderness with truth, stitching pain, love, and longing into verses that make hearts ache and heal at once. From the hills of Ilam, Nepal, his poetry travels far beyond borders, whispering to strangers, comforting the broken, and questioning the world's quiet cruelties. His works, including The Unspoken Words and a lifetime of soul-worn lines, carry the weight of both personal battles and universal human struggles. For Anup, poetry is not art alone—it is confession, rebellion, and prayer. Each piece is written to linger in the reader's heart long after the final line, as if the poem itself refuses to say goodbye. 'I do not write to be remembered. I write so no one feels forgotten.')

The Best Poem Of Anup Dahal

Where Do The Broken Swans Go?

Where do the broken swans go, when lakes forget their name?
Do stars still sing for feathers torn, or whisper them in shame?
The moon once kissed their wings with light, now hides behind the veil,
As silence grows in sacred throats, too soft, too bruised to wail.

O mortal hearts, ye chase the gold, and mock the voice of pain,
You crown the loud with laurels sweet, while poets die in rain.
You build your thrones on dreams once pure, then ask why souls grow cold,
But never kneel to water roots, only hunger for the gold.

A mother prays with hands that bleed, while her son learns to bow,
Not to truth, but polished shoes that trample sacred vow.
And teachers burn like quiet stars, unseen beneath the sky,
Their sacrifice a silent hymn, the world walks blindly by.

O time, thou thief in velvet robe, who steals and softly leaves,
You take our youth, our reckless hope, and stitch it into grieves.
Yet still we write, we plant our pain like roses in the snow,
Not to be seen, but so some lost heart finds a place to grow.

So hear, ye souls with silent screams, your scars are sacred ink,
Your pain is not a punishment, but edge on which we think.
The world may never call your name, nor kiss your battle scars,
But know, the light you lit in dark is dancing in the stars.

And when the broken swans return, with wings no longer torn,
The sky shall write in silver lines, This is why storms are born.

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