blueballad

hey, call me blue

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  • blueballad 7w

    Writers block's really here attacking me in this fine month of September. 'Tis sad, truly :(

    #hyperbole #wod @miraquill @writersnetwork

    3/09/2021, 9:11 am

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    >>>>>>>>

    When Blue writes, her spirit melts into love bites of liquid gold flowing through valleys of troubled waters,
    When Blue writes, the sun gives itself a reason to be birthed anew and the heavens kiss the earth in new testaments; destiny- sealed covenants.
    When Blue writes, desist from your iniquities, beat your chest- say it is so.


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 7w

    And When You Know Better

    You should be proud of the way you write.
    Offer supplications to the aeipathy flowing like purpose through your paper hands, when you write.
    Scream with agony and nothingness at each sentence, when you write.
    Weep for your heart as you clutch it like a prayer when it falls through concrete destinies, when you write.
    Sink your hands into all the hairs stood on the tips of your skin: a miniscule symbol of your frustration, when you write.
    Drag your fingernails along walls of precarious nostalgic memorabilia, when you write.
    Purge valour and melancholy into the grounds of the earth; into the depths of always- like a woman with child, when you write.
    Stamp faith across your spirit when you write.
    Count each breath raking from your throat etched with perpetual worries, like a prosodic tune, when you write.
    Bless the path you have taken- adorned with the prismatic shapes of the unknown, when you write.
    Throw your body atop the works of your hands, when you write.
    Kiss the bones of your fingers, the letters of your name, the woe you have sunk in- yet thrived in, when you write.
    Be happy, be sad, be nothing, when you write.
    Ache, cry, crumble, when you write.
    But please, do not forget that I am here to keep you afloat, when you write.
    Your words; your beginning; your reasons are valid, when you write.
    You should be proud of the way you write; the way you write to me, when you write.


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 7w

    Milk teeth- young children
    Aged fruit- elderly story teller

    Literally couldn't think of anything else. Not my morning :(

    #gogyohka #wod @miraquill @writersnetwork

    30/08/2021, 9:41 am

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    Anticipation Brews

    Milk teeth chatter tentatively underneath moonlit palm groves,
    Their bald heads- black, like their spirits- conjure images of what journeys beheld the hot, starless night.

    The aged fruit approached- crooked legs, unsteady breaths- suddenly, nostrils dared to not flare for the silence itself was sin.
    They waited, hearts pumping kings and crosses, for story time.


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 7w

    If the world was ending, you'd come over, right?- If The World Was Ending, JP Saxe.

    The line 'Capacious as the sea', was extracted from a poem written by Emily Dickinson :)

    #rhetoric #wod
    Thanks for the EC�� @miraquill
    @writersnetwork

    29/08/2021, 10:03 am

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    If The World Was Ending, Would You Believe That Every Poem Was About You?

    Would you like me to capture the sun in the bosom of my elastic heart, and gift it you in the infinite openness of infinity itself, reaching through boundaries of impossibility,
    Capacious as the sea?
    Should I pour out the consciousness of my being into spoonfuls capable of being digested by the mechanism of your disbelief;
    Of your palpable doubt fueled by tureens of mischief?
    Or do you want to witness the birthing of uncreated fragments of a prismatic future, through the lens of my sequacious eyes?
    Eyes the shape of hidden treasure,
    Eyes the colour of anticipation; a second chance; another life?
    Would you believe me if I told you I raced the cow to the moon, tied a rope round its large waist and begot its behind into the anxious hands of gravity- and then told the moon to grant all your wishes; forgive your boundless iniquities?
    Or should I bend the consciousness of the earth and summon Shakespeare from the land of the dead, to write classics underneath palm trees and clear waters?
    What if I told you:
    That every song; every lyric was inspired by the sound of your very breath,
    That every letter of the alphabet and beyond spells out the strength of your name,
    That you look like the seven days of creation,
    And sound like Jazz music playing from the speakers of my favourite café, nestled between the crevices of an enduring passion, and all the spots I love to write at.
    I saw you, and I saw the beginning and the end all bundled up in the humanness of one being,
    You are the poet's greatest enemy:
    Desire.
    You are bright colours and paper planes,
    Childhood fantasies and five star delicacies.
    You are the beautiful words that sit at the tip of my tongue, waiting to be transfigured into an everlasting euphony,

    You are tremendously inconvenient.

    What if I told you that every poem I have ever written was about you; for you,
    Would you believe me then?

    Or should I just stop waiting for an answer?


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 8w

    Look! The sad girls are loving a little harder, today- Blue

    #sijo #wod @miraquill @writersnetwork

    27/08/2021, 8:24 am

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    ∆∆∆

    I stood, finitude akimbo- naked, in the face of adversity, lonesomeness; and realized,
    Friendship is not a test to assess the depths of charisma; of reverie.
    It is instead, the task of mastering the shape of their laughter; the display of a valorous emblem of magnanimity.


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 8w

    And of everything,
    I remain undeserving,
    Through time, and tragedy,
    The apex of functionality,
    Recedes, frenetically.




    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 8w

    Because I have known despair, I value hope- Leonard Nimoy

    #journal #wod @miraquill @writersnetwork #thisisquitelong #nightc @writersbay

    24/08/2021, 8:40 am

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    And The Doctor Cried: "Bliss!"

    I have come to the realization that hospitals are the best place to catch the latest trends in fashion- albeit strange. Reason?

    It wasn't unfamiliarity per say. It was more of the willingness to want to relate, but can't.

    So I proceeded to sit on a long bench,
    Just me.
    And in the opposite direction sat three people:

    A young mother,
    Held a baby: The daughter of early beginnings looked quite shirty.
    Long mitts of sleepless nights were wrapped around her tiny hands,
    Yellow - flowered shoes the size of a whisper, were first deemed too tight, then very interesting, then of no use once again.
    And the mother: Her blue scarf was the length of tiredness,
    Donning weary eyes and an elegiac smile as the stellar accessories, in colours of brown and nude, respectively.
    Her green muddy flats had stravaged through unrelenting remedies; maybe a few layers of vomit.
    A name was called. She hoisted her interesting baby upon her shoulders. She left. Paediatric ward.

    Next: A middle aged lady.
    Clocking around her late thirties maybe.. I was no good with ages.
    She wore a black skirt symbolic of one who carries the weight of diligence, and white heels the length of intimidation.
    She dusted off the sleeves of her navy blue jacket,
    Gently. The material was probably made by the designer called: a lot of money,
    Beautiful. She looked...important.
    A name was called. With strides of click-clacking faith, yet uncertainty. She left. Oncology ward.

    Lastly: an elderly woman,
    Grey hair toussled in waves of nostalgia, the ends a light shade of melancholy,
    Brown slippers implied one who had walked and had meant it,
    Maybe even owned it.
    Large red flannelled shirt, the top button undone: she was dangerous- but only when she felt like it.
    Loose black trousers screamed "Fragile, but I really don't want your pity"
    Pink sunglasses the size of deliberate.
    A name was called. A nurse came by. She was put on a wheelchair. She left. Cardiac ward.

    Whereas I,
    I wore nothing.
    The night stayed by my side, yet our names were never called.
    We never left.
    We couldn't relate.


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 8w

    #perspective #wod #thisisquitelong @miraquill @writersnetwork #madnessc @writersbay

    I really love words, in case you haven't noticed

    You become. It takes a long time - The Velveteen Rabbit

    23/08/2021, 9:15 am

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    The Concept Of Writing Bad Poetry

    The word "CLICHÉ" brews madness in its spaces,
    An irking, unnerving, dismantling means to make me see you for everything as, and for everything yet to come.
    Still...
    I want to fall in love with you a bit more everyday,
    Just little pieces here and there in the MORNING. We use words such as "DULCET"- sweet, sugary, like the kisses hidden beneath my ear, indenting reason, maybe truth on the skin I have gifted to you in the moment of uncertainty, yet purpose.
    "FETCHING"- pretty, like the water running down your shoulders as we are bare bodied beneath our insecurities, which even the loudest moans cannot quell.
    We ease into intensity in the AFTERNOON:
    "LAGNIAPPE"- A special kind of gift 'tis your smile underneath the sun; or the jealousy of the passerbys as they see your hand in mine, guiding the fragility your fingers deem tender.
    "DINKUM"- Genuine, authentic, like your worries when you tell me the grounds of the earth always forget to bless the sweat of your feet. The son of the soil cries "weary" to the rays of the afternoon sun.
    Then it is all at once at NIGHT: Cataclysmic, Dangerous, Overwhelming, aren't enough to describe it. It's more of
    "RASASVADA"- Towering above me, you are the cynosure of essence, and I look a little more pretty when you whisper my name to the moon.
    "KALON"- And suddenly beautiful words were not enough to describe it. Your worth was sought beyond your being- dearest, it's catastrophic... and I wanted to taste it all, feel it all,
    And love it all.
    I wanted to love us like the poets love us.


    The word "HABROMANIA" is defined as: Delusions of Happiness.
    Delusions are false beliefs such as that which I had of the patterns of your thoughts used to describe me: first I was beautiful; then I was unsettling; then you ran away into the,
    "FUGACIOUSNESS" of Happiness: You faded... so easily it was almost surprising, and I'm so scared to admit I was wrong,
    This time- today
    It's madness,
    The way you were into established into "NOTHING" by the very ground you grew upon,
    "ME",
    I was salt and water to your wounds,
    A Lana song on a summer day,
    I wanted to kiss it all away
    Damn it, I was the sea. Hell, I was the Sun
    But then again,
    I was also the pretty words you could never remember,
    "UNDERSTAND"


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 8w

    Not my best

    All that is gold does not glitter. Not all those who wander are lost - J.R.R Tolkien

    #anaphora #wod @miraquill

    I am undoubtedly overwhelmed. Thanks so much for the repost�� @writersnetwork

    22/08/2021, 8:43 am

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    Picasso Once Said.....

    This is the cataclysm the angels were warned about,
    This is the unearthing of the melancholy the classics sung about,
    This is the earthquake forged in the depths of misguidance,
    This is the penance of a lifetime,
    This is the undying love that was preached about,

    Today a spell was cast into waters of anarchy,
    Today sciamachy stood firm in the face of serendipity,
    Today salvation was not allowed to roam freely,
    Today shots were fired into the sun,. Today... today is gone.

    The odes have lost their stronghold,
    The dreamers cower in fear,
    The stillness of night cannot hold,
    The misanthropy the skies deem dear.

    And the love?
    And the love that was preached about only lives here, in these words.


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 9w

    You were unsure which pain is worse: the shock of what happened, or the ache of what never will - Unknown

    #city #wod @miraquill @writersnetwork #simpleton

    19/08/2021, 10:40 am

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    Son Of The Soil, Why Do You Cry?

    The minister of the city ran away with his hands between his thighs,
    When the belly of the soil cried to the heavens for a miracle.

    See the lips of her children have grown ashen,
    And can no longer sing choruses of worship,

    To the citadel of broken promises,
    Staged antics and greedy addresses.

    How many protests does it take to forge a clearer future,
    And what price must be paid to attain a liveable demeanor?

    This city....this city was carved from the ruins of greed and goodbyes,
    Built on the necks of distrust, and a broken mother's cry.

    The echoes of the masses are deafening the ears of the stronghold,
    Paper notes cannot quell the fire of the wounded; of the culture.

    Guns are raised at the countenance of a plea,
    Jeopardy seethes in solidarity with democracy,

    If this is what I was born into,
    What shall be left to fight for?


    ©b l u e