bicyclesandpens

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  • bicyclesandpens 2w

    The Lost Art

    Imagine the amount of art we would have lost without "3am"s and heartbreaks,
    Without starless winter nights in lonely little blankets,
    Without the love that survives among those who can't be lovers,
    Or without the love that perishes for one and grows for the other.

    Imagine the amount of art we have already lost on the back of their throats,
    Or at the tips of their fingers and the pits of their stomachs,
    For there are days when the voices in their head are louder than the strings of their guitar,
    And the heaviness that weighs their heart, makes it difficult to even breath, much less, make art.

    Imagine the amount of art we will lose, somewhere amidst torn letters written to mothers,
    Or in dead flowers lying between pages of books waiting to be forgotten,
    The art that will be lost in people we probably won't meet again,
    Or in buildings holding memories, not long before they turn into a ghost, never to be seen again.

    Only to be rejoined, rediscovered or reconstructed and remembered by someone, someday, who sees art in broken, and broken in people,
    And the day they do, art will be found again,
    And art will breath again to recite the tales of the people who were art themselves.

    ©bicyclesandpens

  • bicyclesandpens 3w

    How do you not
    Fall
    In
    Love
    With
    Fall
    Flowers'
    Grace
    As
    They
    Fall?
    How do you not?

    ©bicyclesandpens

  • bicyclesandpens 3w

    It is so important to see and realise the signs of a toxic relationship, be it with a toxic friend group or a romantic relationship or a someone whom you have known for your whole life, but it is just as difficult to leave such relationships.
    To anyone who's currently suffering in distancing themselves from someone toxic, know that you are not alone and it's not your fault, more power to you for surviving ����


    #wod #pod #bicyclesandpens #photograph @miraquill @writersnetwork

    Read More

    I remember,
    Always being a part of their photographs,
    But never their memories,
    Always standing at the corners or with my face behind their shoulders,
    While everyone else's places always varied.

    I remember,
    Sitting on the other table, when there was not enough space for one more,
    Or walking behind on the side walks, which narrowed with each step of ours.

    I remember,
    Realising all I ever was, was a laugh stock and a difficult day comfort,
    For times when things didn't go right, or for when life was too harsh,
    And on other days, I were to just watch them from afar,
    But it didn't really matter, till I kept posing for their photographs.

    Untill one day I didn't, and I won't say haven't looked back,
    But then I turn around and smile, giving the best poses of my life;
    In the centre of my own photographs.

    ©bicyclesandpens

  • bicyclesandpens 5w

    I will keep the secrets your eyes have whispered to mine under the stellar night skies;
    And when the stars turn into an oblivion,
    I will burry them at the horizon, right before sunrise.

    ©bicyclesandpens

  • bicyclesandpens 5w

    I do not want you to be a part of me,
    Neither do I want to be a part of you,
    For we already are a mosaic
    Of parts of people who couldn't stay.

    So can we just vibe for tonight?
    With thoughts not matching and our feelings a mess,
    Can we just sway on sweet melodies,
    And let the rest take care of itself?

    ©bicyclesandpens

  • bicyclesandpens 6w

    As The Chilly December Afternoon Turns Into Night

    “It's quite chilly today huh”, I mutter with cluttering teeth, and a mischievous smile,
    December chuckles, as the quite afternoon play it's role and I hear the rustling branches from a mile.
    I wrap myself in a cardigan and offer her a muffler but she denies,
    Instead she wraps her arms around me and basks me in her golden sunlight;
    I do not complain.

    “Doesn't it bother you,” I utter with a sadness looming my voice, “all this hate you get?”
    December smiles at me and tells me she is not for everyone to love, for she's a little more cruel to some, than others.
    It's part of her, she softly explains, that's what nature has planed and she dutifully abides,
    I nod but tsk in disapproval, as the afternoon hours pass by.

    In the evening, we share a cup of chai, chai never tasted better,
    We talk about the fall and I tell her all the stories of the summer,
    She gets a little jealous and leaves a sigh, as chilly winds blanket my windows in frost,
    I make smileys on them with my fingers, inturn December smiles.

    In the dark hours of night, we stand in my balcony, with a hot cup of cocoa,
    The moon long hidden and the stars barely visible, yet the early Christmas lights twinkle in the corners of her eyes,
    December yawns and stretches her arms, as I add another shawl and bid my goodnight,
    “Goodnight my friend”, she whispers and makes her way into the night.

    ©bicyclesandpens

  • bicyclesandpens 7w

    First time going back to my old hometown.
    However, instead of me outgrowing it, it seems like it has outgrown me (:
    Thank you for the EC!!

    #first #wod #pod #bicyclesandpens @miraquill @writersnetwork

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    Deserted Streets

    On a misty sunday afternoon,
    I wander around the busy streets of my old hometown,
    Searching for some sort of familiarity in all the unfamiliar eyes that meet mine,
    But to no avail, I look up instead, at the sky,
    The only thing that seems to not have changed over the time.

    And as I look up I notice how the sun stands out in the crowd of clouds,
    Yet in all its glory, it somehow manages to blend in just fine,
    Unlike myself, I don't fit into these buzzing streets,
    That are now filled with traffic and blaring horns,
    And eager faces ready to return home.

    However these crowded streets seem unusually deserted to me,
    For the people I used to call home, are nowhere to be seen.
    The carefree ghosts of their past selves now float in the air,
    And if I look close enough, I might as well find mine, floating with them.

    Shaking my head, I look down at my steps,
    A drop of rain falls on my cheeks, not long before another fell,
    Bringing back memories of sunken paper boats and puddles of innocence,
    Every raindrop that follows reminds me of the beautiful childhood these streets held.

    Soon the drizzle turns into a downpour,
    Yet I stand still, taking it all in, being in the moment for once,
    My wet sleeves cling to my arms like I had been clinging to the bitterness of change,
    Again I look up and register the dark sky with no sun in sight, still enduring-ly beautiful.

    ©bicyclesandpens

  • bicyclesandpens 7w

    Forced poetry etched together aimlessly
    might suffice the world's hunger for words,
    but what about the soul that feeds on it to survive?
    How do you take away it's serinity and solace
    and not expect it to die?

    ©bicyclesandpens

  • bicyclesandpens 8w

    I will let the wind carry my love for you to some unknown shore and I will bid it goodbye like the lost souls do to the bottles filled with little notes.

    ©bicyclesandpens

  • bicyclesandpens 8w

    I know I am very late but here's to all the poetries that have held me at my lowest.

    Thank you so much for the EC, this is my first one ����

    #art #wod #poetry @miraquill @writersnetwork

    Read More

    How Do You Not Fall In Love With Poetry?

    Like a slow burning liquid glitter that runs down your throat,
    Poetry dissolves all the feelings you have clutched too hard on,
    Letting them jolt through every vein that belongs,
    Until they perish; and you realise it has only left you asking for more.

    Poetry bangs on your heart door in the middle of the night, asking to be let in,
    You open up not giving it a second thought and it settles just right within,
    Then it proceeds to set ablaze all the corners where your demons hide,
    Radiating warmth to the ones where long forgotten pain resides.

    Surging waves of emotions and turning them into large tides,
    Poetry washes over your past and the people you left behind,
    And it brings them to the shore of your soul,
    It makes you long for what's lost but also embrace your flaws.

    And maybe tonight, poetry will rock you untill you fall asleep,
    Or maybe it will knock off all the air in your lungs,
    And it will make you weep,
    Or maybe, just maybe, it will embed itself as a part of you for keeps.

    ©bicyclesandpens