#pod#wod#end#miraquill#writersnetwork#ceereposts . Trust me I'm not even in my right senses. Like I don't what's wrong with me. Like I've kind of lost my inspiration but I still write because I want to be prepared when the inspiration arrives in its own mysterious way. I'm stuck and it's very hard to come out of it. I'm lost~~~ But I don't want to be for long.
Flowers fade/sky sail's and soars/connoisseurs creep cries/silences scream/ Bewitching beauty/saddening sunset/a cream colored cottage/ lusty loneliness/dingy darkness/wavering waves/tall trees twinkling/colours clinking/stars sewn seraphic/wounded wine/ poached peaches/sweet scents. . 16th October 2021 The sky was grey today. It didn't speak like it used to. It slowly turned lavender with a gem sewn into it. Even the trees were silent. The gentle humour grew faintly, with each ascending hour in the book of time, from seconds to minutes to hours. Some oranges and reds sneaked their way into the tiny house on the lonesome hill, splashing it's way through the windows queerly. They didn't seem to have lost their way neither did they find one. In the gentle innocence of a child they hid in my languid eyes and black short hair, turning golden after the rendezvous.
Flowers faded, even in a pool of water with ample sunlight. They weren't meant to live but I forced them to. Though they lost to the desires of time and death, still the sense of saving a life form perceived in my heart; the flowers were abandoned by some stoic lovers as they too, had lost to their own lovers. A lover abandons another lover in a different form. So I picked them up gently yesterday, to retrieve and find traces of some leftover love but it only led me to overwhelming lust and precarious desires.
The little cottage praised by the soaring wind stood firm upon the hill, where I lived with a library of thoughts and emotions, all breathing in the restless words of a forgotten poetess, who still breaths but has lost all her blood in her veins to the ink pot in which she dipped her peacock feathered quill and wrote till the early hours of the day, disturbed by the rising dawn and the falling night.
On such an evening she lied to the cities of youth and recklessness so that they could abandon her and leave her in her chaos; ruins of her former self. She built herself one by one, piece by piece; a Michelangelo perfecting her David, and so well did she make her ruins into the little cottage, fate and destiny resigned from her life forever.
She still lives with me like a haunting spirit, a dream that we all live in, and seldom leaves the cottage draped in sleek cream colored hues, stained with the faltering kisses of her former love, and the faltering kisses of the dusks and dawns in which she rekindled her light every night, only to be distinguished the next morning.
The waves of the sea will still clammer, the sun will still rise, the flowers will still bloom, even if she and me go out of everyone's sight.
/The stars shine/the moon sings lullabies/the seas sing ballads for the nights/ you and me still fight to survive./
You once told me, About the anatomy of my body With the accessories of five senses And a parcel of "soultrons" Of how one person is never enough To fit in one It always has to be more than one.
You once told me How to rectify and identify My body parts "The ones that see ;our eyes The ones that hear ;our ears The one that speaks is a mouth The one that beats till death; a heart The ones that moves; our limbs" And so on Well then my ears always see things that the "eyes" aren't supposed to see My eyes hear the whispers of the deadly nights My heart often moves and sways To the sound of the music And my limbs often beat in heresy.
You once told me How scars are a badge of honour But my torso is already heavy; tired of shining bright; monochrome; red Still I fathom them like the infinite sky Not all stars are meant to twinkle Some are meant to be holes Hurled by their own gravity And a blast of Hawking's radiations.
(Nothing ever; seldom dies in the universe; Well exceptions are always there I am the defiant of this supreme law As I've died A million times in my poems and dreams And never reserrected So the cosmos erased my memories; so done with me.)
You once told me That the mind is a bearer Of all the memory flags that one hoists, There's none in sight Only sheer darkness glows Repeated words after words pave the way To the next death And 7 minutes of inactivity Where your mind is supposed to be the most active Alas! Exceptions exceptions everywhere!
#miraquill#writersnetwork#pod#enso#wod#ceesreposts Well writer's block is so frustrating and I've been stuck in this state for around 15 days now. I'm sorry this is not that good but I will try to write something better next time... Anyways this is all I have today.
I am kiss, no one's Lips; to dream and tender Girl or With soft a drunk Of beauty confession
Neither. (holes) Do the skies. Bones; Sing of. Of fractured my austere. The shadow Beauty; Rest in Scars
Love notes By hate To the The love Hate notes Eat I write Binge and Everyday Monsters But
So today Purest metal I bring with the The gold Shine Lacquer Them Of and let Kintsugi
Imperfect to be Or "I'm perfect" Supposed My curves It was scratches Where Marks is Everything
Just like the moon is neither perfect or imperfect, It's just where it was destined to be, Up in the sky; a serene being So am I Not a dead mirror But just ME.
#growth#wod#pod#miraquill#writersnetwork#ceesreposts This poem is a hopeless poem that contrasts the difference between how one thing seems to be and how it actually is. This is something I learned as I grew up. So this is how I might have grown differently. This poem requires a lot of reading between the lines I feel. Anyways here you go.
When the clock strikes 12 at midnight There's no Cinderella running from the ball But memories crawling back into the skin, In the nature of their cruel kindness They rub sugary salt to remains of Half-forgotten veracious mistakes; Nevermind the dull roar from the flesh They come as souvenirs Souvenirs that have been paid well for. Honeysuckle bitterness settles down cosily For me, memories are inhuman traitors With hands - the shape of my chimney smoke And hands can be awfully beautiful: Genuinely mocking the terrains of blood While murals in my castle bleed softly; The neighbours gather under my balcony Like guest hosts lost at their own party They carry their own version of petitions That says how my home gets louder at night How could I ever tell them that it's only my heart Caught in intense apathy and polished anger; I'm still learning not to walk away hungry from Our family table that is always filled with dishes I'm still learning to take the bigger steps by Breaking them down into lengthy algorithms. Dandelion roots emerge as nostalgic syllables Who could ever cheat the faithful death? A loud whisper seeps into my dry throat Reminding me that there's a negative growth Of flowers from my lungs that I have often Imagined to be as soft as dreaming; Mama has always instructed me to keep My back straight even when no one's around But it's an open secret now I am an original copy of good grief Recorded live on a cassette Memories have eaten me alive My fears have ended up writing their Own epilogues with sad smiles How could I ever keep my back straight When there are so many fissures in my spine That eruptions are always at the point of happening? How could I ever call my mind beautiful When it's just controlled chaos held back by skin?
I have written this as a tribute to all those little girls, who were taken away, even before they stepped into this world. Female foeticide is one of the cruelest crime humans can inflict upon themselves! Only a soul-less demon can do It! It tears me to pieces, even just thinking about it!
Every night, I go to bed, Wishing to slip into oblivion, Even if it is just for few tranquil moments I want to get lost in silence, My only salvation!
But the silent screams erupt in my head Screams of desolation and defenceless voices Shrieking whispers of villainous vices Their fingerless hands reach out As they choke my emotions And their headless bodies dance around Full of bloody scarlet passion!
Their screeching hoots pierce my ears Followed by deafening silence That falls on the ear drums Gushing bloodless bleeds of pestilence Causing me to moan with fear and torment The painless suffering of inaction Makes my still heart tremble Wounding every moment!
They dance holding their hideous hands Make fingerless pointing gestures They question my quietness, My derelict attempts at cloak- less vesture In hiding my innermost desperation I fail them all miserably Pushing them into ever growing damnation!
They are the tiny souls Lost in the darkest brightness Not allowed to be, And not allowed to leave Their breaths ceased before growing lungs Held in contempt, on the lowest rung! The female children, living dead lives Killed in their mother's wombs!
- Aurelia - Her eyes look like unheard stories shaping clay moulds into archaic symbols of greek sculpture. Ferns adore her art, like poems adore her hand. Hooded ancient scribbler notes down this wholesome tragedy of her beauty, fading into stardust, on every full moon; as she kneads the raw heart full of thaws, to give a coarse tone to her soft armature made of delicate metaphors aligned. Lifeless sculpture breathes through her charms and breaks into tears in her arms as she quietly hugs it while sobbing.
- Love - The rain is falling into the lap of mother, her eyes holding onto the dead child, as she surrenders the universe and offers it as homage to the holy trinity. Her fingertips still caressing the child's hair, pouring life into the scalp and skull. Soon awakens the child in heaven to find, an old man awaiting by the olive tree in their very own backyard, holding a box full of truffles and honey. While he leaves for the truffles, her arms fall down, she lays on the ground, by drawing life from every cell of her body into her eyes, to capture her child jumping with joy. She offers herself.
- Xenon - Two lovers found two roads, one road allows only one person to travel. Ephemeral, burdensome, decision making time arrives as they borrow another hour from heaven to stay together. Like wallflowers with wanderlust, following a pitiful fate to rhyme a melody before departing, the xenon undresses his pathetic form and devotes himself to the pure bliss called love.
- Old lavender - Your smile is a lie as the corners of your lips twitch with the tears rolling down from the canthus of your eye. You smile is real when you leave the old pages and old books in the cellar to find a new book from the unusual store called life to renew your writing skills and better adding more paintings if words could not describe the little descriptions of your routine.
- Noah - When flowers bloom, the selene in mufti inspects the ruins after war, encounters the river. Crestfallen moon dips into brook, as it's shine brings the dead river back to life. Butterflies flutter their wings pouring some pollen over the soil where water meets. Elegant embodiment of forgiveness takes birth after destruction.