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  • _gloom_ 10w

    Dear Chaheti,

    Idek kya bolu it's like we never had a proper chat yet it feels like we had many. You've an unpareil vibe which no one I've met in real life or virtually has. Iss din sab tareef krte ik pr fir mujhe hairani bhi hoti ki mtlb koi itna exuberant kaise ho sakti. But then I hope it's all smiles to your core and you're not masking anything. You always light up this place like always. Pata nhi kyu itna comfortable lagta likethere's something. Actually it's all you and the person you are. CHAHETIIIIIIIIIIIIIII uff that name is sukoon. Khair mujhe nhi aata yesab bolna but I really wanted to write you a poem mujhe yaad hai Devika k time you said ki tere liye likhungi ya nhi aur I said usse bhi achi ;_; but I don't even write like that anymore and it's tough now to go back. People change so much. It's scary. I hope you don't.NEVER OKAY? Teri poem due hai I'll write you a khoobsurat one. Fir I thought I'll atleast send you something pr fir kal raat se I've a bad throat ache aur subah 10:30 ko uthne k baad bgi gale se awaaz nhi nikl rha . Piu na padhle yeh. Khair. Hum dono ka birthday pe aise sick ho jana is mandatory. I just hope you're not sick on your birthday please ;_; . I swear I can't even speak thik se ;_; Study hard. All best. Happy birthday Chahetiiiiiii TAKE CARE kam bimaar huya kr ;_;

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  • _gloom_ 14w

    Her eyes look like,
    Unheard stories
    That the skies wrote
    On lunar-eclipses
    While the auroras rest on her sclera
    She paints a cosmos in her iris
    With lost stains of a crude sunset
    She wanders in a field of may-flowers
    Writing epistles to fallen petals
    She's an ardent florist
    Who makes mogras bloom in dead soil
    Her collarbones are shelter to catastrophes
    While she muses them on her fingertips
    She's a blend of elation and greys
    And on days
    My skylines are at stake
    She sends me hope in pixels
    I haven't traced her sacred skin
    In atoms and molecules
    But I've touched her soul
    The texture of whose
    Is like the petals of daisys
    And Wordsworth's poetries
    Her hair falls like advent of a night
    Like stream of waterfall
    That washes away my lassitude
    She's so much beauty
    That my quill shies away
    She's 17 fields of mayhem
    At a summer's edge
    She's eternity burning the brightest
    She's my home
    In hurricanes
    My soulmate,
    Till my last breath.

    @onemayhem for you ��

    P.S- kya yehi pyaar hai? Nhi woh toh aisehi sexy laga toh likh diya

    Mood thik kr apna

    #start #wod

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  • _gloom_ 25w

    HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEVIKA.

    Okay so um you pop up everytime Siddharth bhaiya speaks xp which reminds me of the fact that you started reading me on his recommendation. Good old days. As a matter of fact I'm not at all anxious while writing this which I'm usually, because of the simple reason that the person I'm writing this for is a convergent ray and we somehow coincide the same point. You have a notion, which is extremely extremely extremely stupid according to me, and that is you think you're hard to approach which is so wrong like really. I've always felt like talking to a mirror while talking to you xD especially that loop thing, goodness I was shocked to some extent. Everytime I texted you on hangouts you always spoke to me and the conversation didn't seem forced. Of all the time I told you about those system failures xD if you remember you always related to me and somehow it felt like okay I'm not the only one. I still believe skies have things to say when everything in the back of our mind turns grey. And I still believe sunsets can heal hearts. Like I said kolkata has witnessed THE PRETTIEST OF SUNSETS IN THE PAST MONTH and rainbows twice. A rainbow reminds me of two persons the second one is you. You've never hurt me except for that once but let bygones be bygones. I want to thank you for a lot of things, for always writing your heart out, never caring. And maybe I've never told you this uff feels weird but um thank you for reading me 'there' um always felt like someone patting my back saying that "It's okay, it's home and you belong" thank you so much Devika. You've been bluntly honest and it's okay if too much honesty is rudeness, I'd definitely prefer to be rude gladly. And Idk again why I always fall sick on birthdays uff, cursed me. Your words are beautiful and you're an amazing writer. Touchwood. You've inspired so many people to write sonnets and syllable poems. Your take on prompts is extremely out of the box. And okay Like I always say I'm terrible at giving people the praise they deserve and I want to say a lot but I'm bereft of words. Just Thank you Devika, for being so non judgement to me and always understanding me. Thank you. Aur tareef krungi toh bhaiya kehenge hmmmmmm indirectly khud ki tareef krne acha bahana hai.
    Pata nhi kya hogya unko budhe hogye. Uff. Kitna boring hogye. Anyway I hope your sangati will asar him. Happy adulting Devika Didi xD . *takes ashirvad* sending you the prettiest of skies, brightest of rainbows and all the happiness. And things do fall into places. Always.
    I adore you. <3











    This is one stupid post I wrote and didn't even read but gharwali se kya sharmana xD








    A myriad of hues
    Drapes her aura
    As she lies,
    Amidst a field of wildflowers
    She tames crimson wild fires
    Scarring her tender skin
    The lines on her palms
    Are homeless horizons
    For she's home to all things
    Left,
    Unheard,
    Un-felt,
    Unfathomed
    She's August's alibi
    She's a vibe
    Drenched in a mystic apocalypse
    She's the flavour of sunsets,
    Which is her favourite stain
    She's Sasoon's muse
    Etched on Sangria skylines
    Do not try to tame her wounds
    Her scars make her beautiful
    She flows as calm as the ganges,
    Yet, rages as a storm
    She's so much more,
    That the lusture of the stars,
    The gleam of the moon
    She's a hope-wave of sanguinity
    A summer child
    She makes cherry blossoms smile
    Her words are ciphertexts
    To strangers in distress
    She blooms among the ashes
    Of a dead forever
    She's the midas touch of virtue
    An enchantress of syllables
    Her smiles are rainbows
    The sky gifts
    To erase the creases of her eyebrows
    She's a jar of firefly
    That renders light
    She's the harappan dialect
    History fails to decipher
    She's all of me,
    But better, always.


    @thunderclap

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  • _gloom_ 25w

    Happy birthday Jerry. I don't know you a lot but you've always been nothing but kind to me. I honestly don't know what to write, forgotten I guess. I miss our music sessions though. Kitnaaaaa maza aata tha hehe. Especially sharing a similar song taste with you. Chahu na chahu I'm still a sheep xD. #aproudsheep xD never change okay? You make things alive. More than they've ever been. You left even before I had a chance to read you but nevermind, someday this wish shall come true. Idk how I feel so at home with you but nvm. You feel like an amazing person inside out and how I miss you roasting Hafeez uff. And your take on him banning you from the server XDD. It was so fun on discord, felt very comfortable around you as if you pulled me out of my shell. I'm glad to have come across you. I really miss you, your reads. Mirakee has undoubtedly changed and with people leaving it feels even more terrible. But nonetheless I wish you get to go abroad soon and fulfil your dreams. Best wishes. Stay blessed and keep smiling. Sending you bluest shade of skies and smiling sunflowers.

    P.S- Adulting sucks but I trust you. You'll make it fun xp

    P.P.S - I'm feeling shy erm ��

    @jerry_21

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    She sprinkles stardust on gloomy phrase
    And holds up seams of a frowning sky
    A champagne sunset amidst lacquered days
    She paints greys with a smiling dye
    She's a patch of blooming daisies
    And a satin town of dreams
    She's a mesh of brimming stars
    While Vangogh holds his quill.
    She's Beethoven's muse
    And Monet's reverie
    She's the flavour of the catastrophe
    The one that etches bravery
    She's a forever in the run
    A poetry in the making.

    ©_gloom_

  • _gloom_ 42w

    Ode to my Dinner Table

    Warm Humid Afternoons,
    A mansion amidst a countryside,
    Yet mother lives like a pauper.
    You've seen it all,
    At Afternoons , at morn,
    At night when he returns
    Complaining about heat,
    The bazaars of the city,
    He taps on your body, glossy shal wood,
    You're two years old
    And 2 evermore wise.
    At morning when my mother serves her hard-word,
    On silver platters, because he wouldn't eat otherwise,
    You hear him muttering headlines,
    And cursing women of our country,
    He thumps the glass hard,
    On your shall frame,
    The glass reeks of tea,
    From yesterday when you had guests to sit,
    Around yourself,
    Too many people,
    To less china sets,
    You heard him boast about the Nilgiri tea,
    Whose smell took over patriarchy,
    And mother poured herself a glass,
    To earn a cup demands some class.
    The mayor's wife was British,
    She complained about your smooth texture,
    'Too coarse'
    My father's face fell
    'Too dusty'
    My mother clenched her creased veils
    You wished you weren't dumb,
    I wished I wasn't young.
    My mother at night sits near you,
    Her head on the sheen wood.
    Her spine is pliant as a tulsi plant,
    She's trailing on the verge of male domination,
    One step and she falls,
    Into a puddle of orthodox.
    But you can't save her,
    But I might one day?
    2 years more of this womanhood.
    Till I speak up for her,
    Until then,
    You embrace her,
    Be there for her on my behalf.


    ©autumntales

  • _gloom_ 42w

    Obituary to Anxiety

    Anxiety was born 2 eternity back to Despair and solitude. At a very young age he seemed at a war with elation and brightness, he would be found strolling in the dingy town of sadness. He was homeschooled by his own parents who shared similar interests. As he grew up he took the profession of a tour guide of Dark alley and cursed fringes of the city, he garnered a sumptuous amount of fame in the world. He was the core ingredient of literature of many renowned poets. He had a beautiful dark aura about him that made the entire world fall for him within blinks. He was a bohemian who preferred dwelling within people's head that concrete structure. Anxiety turned harsher after each passing day taking toll of many, even Plath and Woolf couldn't escape. It's with grave surprise that sources revealed that he has been found dead today past sunrise, in the graveyard of burnt lies. It's heard that he had a not-so-pleasant encounter with hope the other day. No evidence of clear murder has been found yet. His funeral shall be performed at the Serene Suburbs beside the metaphor mansion. He would be buried beside his parents and adorned with withered roses. All are welcome to attend this event held on the coming new moon.


    ©autumntales

  • _gloom_ 42w

    Sometimes, I feel like cleping August eulogies as hopenotes to my blue muses. Archetypal love-stories do not fascinate me enough to draw gloomy graffiti on my pale walls. The florist is seven sighs towards the eastern fringes of my glum hometown. He plucks wildflowers from old graveyards and sells them dyed in his cheap tragedies. His garden is in the forbidden suburbs which is heard to be cursed by death. His withered roses and dying orchids do not fetch him smiles, yet he manages a fair living, somehow, anyhow.

    I visited a flower show last week far from my dainty town. It smelled like fresh poetic dogmas you can't just walk past without taking a glance. The demonstrator was himself too flattered by the crimson beauty of the rose. Behind the bright paper lanterns and colourful balloons I saw a bunch of dreamy dandelions earnestly invingilating the ebullient crowd who rushed towards everyone but them. The white lilies kept on spilling their gloom in the pink corridors lamenting ignorance. Peonies are said to be at a higher monetary worth than roses. Yet none could surpass the charismatic halo of roses. Is conventional beauty that powerful? Maybe.

    I walked out of the show feeling like a a bunch of tangled wire over grey skyscrapers. I could never fathom why our florist chose wildflowers over anything, until now. Wildflowers are far more beautiful than fancy flowers that sit proud on buns, in a way poets can't fathom. They remain unfazed about the world tumbling down into bits, unbothered about mere attention. On my way home I gathered some wildflowers and gave it to our florist. He smiled knowingly. I didn't have to explain anything. I meant what he has been knowing since all these years.

    I pledged that from this day wildflowers would replace roses between the pages of my favourite novels.

    #flowers #wod