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  • aperture 4d

    It has been almost a year, no, it has been a year since I met you from that quiet yet aesthetically beautiful account of @sereiin, full and full of love poems. Compared to that day and today, it would be an understatement if I say you are the best person I have met here. You honestly remind me of sunflowers (but ofc you have a new nickname now --> radish ��) always and always bringing smiles to my face. I never have to worry about getting back bitched about my weird habits and personality with you; and that's just one of the many things that makes me utterly comfortable around you, as if I know I have a safe place where I can be who I am without holding anything back. Our endless song sessions, passionate discussions about books (particularly from the romance genre xD), hyping about series that are still somehow trending on social media, like... one can pick up any kind of topics with you and talk to you for hours about it. And that pretty pretty face of yours, ufff; BOHT BOHT SUNDR HAIN AND DON'T YOU EVEN DARE QUESTION THIS FACT BEFORE ME T_T

    I don't know why but these days, I feel a lot awkward here and run out of compliments to give to people. Maybe because I am done with this place finally; maybe my life outside this platform has shown me nothing really matters at the end of the day; but let me just tell you, I ABSOLUTELY ADORE YOU FOR THE KIND OF PERSON YOU ARE!

    HAPPY 20th BIRTHDAY RADHIKA. I have heard 20s are one of the best phases of life where you are allowed to be selfish enough to walk from anything that doesn't seem to fit into your story
    I wish you loads of smiles and pretty skies for this new journey of yours.

    P.S. I have lost touch with writing for a long time now and nothing I write satisfies me anymore but I will try on this part ;_;

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    With a notepad of spray-painted syllables
    Tucked tenderly inside her sequined pockets
    She touches sour wounds behind fake smiles
    Not caring about how they could fill her lungs
    Except that she can create something like a
    Bloom out of something so hideous.

    She is one from the crowd of graffiti artists
    Her heart echoing in the falling sunlight
    Like the sound of brown sparrows;
    Her collarbones like the crisp shape of symphonies
    Breaks into a thousand metaphors
    At the soft touch of poetries
    And of all the good news she bears on her palms
    Here's the prettiest one:
    She is kindness draped in hundreds of shades of love.

  • aperture 1w

    It's the 24th of November
    The phase where the world smears
    Its view with fog and unutterable nostalgia,
    The ghost of summer lingers close by
    Your shoulder when you ask me,
    "What's your favorite piece of art?"
    And I smile at my poetic hands
    That tore apart orphaned feelings
    Like a surgeon with a rusty knife
    "Mine?" I question before you nod;
    And I open my journal to the pages
    Reeking of sweatshirts and violent confessions
    It smells of a 'now stranger's cologne
    Who used to smile a lot less than he ought to
    And I took a Polaroid of him when he couldn't
    Stop laughing at my terrible jokes and stuck it
    To the empty chapters of friendship where
    My heart was a little less broken from
    Time and people leaving
    "That," I say breathlessly;
    "That smile I put on his face
    Comes under my favourite list.''

    Another time, I tended a brutal wound
    Thriving like a contagious disease on
    The tender paws of a stray dog
    Who hides behind trash bags
    At the sight of rogue kids.
    Me and my sister named her Aphrodite
    For everytime we gave her food,
    Her eyes would light up like
    Passionate sunkissed skylines
    I turn to you and say,
    ''Aphrodite and the feel of her soft fur
    On my palms is just another one."

    I open the drawer where I have stacked
    Letters I wrote to someone everyday
    Except never sent one to any address
    And letters that someone wrote me
    Because I couldn't love him more than a friend,
    It felt like an aesthetic poetry
    How creation needs nothing more
    Than just a touch of grief and treacherous memories
    I love these letters for they could only ever
    Meet at the edge of a secret horizon
    Where sweet innocence played with the unknown.

    I proceed to tell you about a time
    When sunlight hit our windowsills
    That would turn the peonies
    I planted a shade rosier than usual,
    Mama would pick one each morning
    Tuck it behind her ear while pretending to be a princess
    And I would say proudly, "I grew them."
    Those are the moments I kept safe
    In my mind despite the furniture there
    Always catching fire from my rage.
    You smile at my childish treasures but
    Raise a fist to me, "A toast to your favorite works of art then?"
    I laugh and bump my little bunch of fives with yours
    "Yeah, a toast to those good old days."



    #art #confessionc #wod

    @heartsease because of your constant encouragement whenever I am here, thank you :')

    @miraquill @writersnetwork

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  • aperture 5w

    #haynaku #wod #miraquill #writersnetwork


    @writersnetwork Thank you for EC��

    9 'poorly rhymed'' haynakus

    Foxgloves: a kind of pinkish purple flower that symbolises pride and instinct

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    A p r i c o t
    Shades flame
    Up the sky

    P u r p l e
    Drapes the
    Body of foxgloves

    G r e y
    Looks tender
    Before those goodbyes

    T e a l
    Shines brightest
    On ocean waves

    B r o w n
    Unfurls its
    Melody in soil

    Y e l l o w
    Lies supine
    On pastoral lands

    P e r h a p s
    Colors hold
    Answers for eyes

    P e r h a p s
    Colors are
    A gasping poem

    The lines
    Of sublime feelings.

    ©aperture (24/10/21)

  • aperture 5w

    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?

    ©aperture (23/10/21)


    #wod #oxymoron #writersnetwork #miraquill #epiloguec

    Back to my original form?

    @writersbay @miraquill

    @writersnetwork THANK YOU��

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    True Fiction


  • aperture 5w

    To the unmapped blue rooftop,

    Most people are dragging trails of memories on their wake; and almost all of them remind me of you. I have been sharing smiles through letters to my abstract conceptions; and I have my best days only on the weekends when I wait for no one's hands to mold me into a better story. There's this river in the outskirts of the city, the folks never liked its water for its slight greenish tinge but you must have noticed, you must have, for when I am here, I stare at you idly for hours trying to give names to those candy floss cloud and sending wishes to pink sunsets and murmuration with the song of cicadas growing ever so loud that you could forget your own name. Somedays when you see tears on too many faces, I watch you shed your own to form rainbows while dampness caves into the gravity. And like a child, I linger near your door with a wisteria branch tucked against my collarbone; because I have always had a soft spot for things that can grow.

    I guess there's tenderness in overflowing emotions but saying nothing about them.

    From yours,