champagnesupernova

Here today, Gone tomorrow.

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  • champagnesupernova 101w

    @iamsleepy maybe this will make up for the hiatus.
    #mirakee #writersnetwork

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    Vaccine?

    I often wonder
    how many
    has poetry saved.

    Do words, then, follow
    the laws of
    mortal jurisprudence?
    That if, like abandoned houses,
    they rust and the
    poetry they were capable
    of turns rotten.

    While i struggle to compose
    the next few lines, my
    speculations seem to be
    coming true.

    But then, do we even remember
    words, by words?
    or language,
    by language?

    Or do we wait
    to be reminded
    of the person who
    once inundated us
    with them?

    Are words even
    words?
    Is even this not a
    mourning, a longing,
    for a voice,
    that voice
    which spoke like the
    warmth of a moonlit
    night, against a
    resting sea?

    I often wonder how many
    has poetry saved,
    but more than that
    I wonder
    how many
    it has ended.


    ©champagnesupernova

  • champagnesupernova 117w

    pedagogy.

    where is the love,
    if not always
    a couple of something
    away?

    a couple of touches on
    some days
    and a couple of humans
    on others, putting a tab
    on our countably infinite
    moments of living
    worth living,
    and joy worth
    reminiscing.

    on some days
    through a prolonged crisis
    of 'why am i really here',
    i figure that love is
    strangely enough
    falling for existence,

    falling for existence,
    albeit someone
    else's.

    what perhaps is
    the closest i may come to a definition
    of it,
    is this

    "give us crisis,
    give us pain,
    but do not forget to end it
    before it starts to rain."

    ©champagnesupernova

  • champagnesupernova 122w

    treasure.

    it is beside her
    that i see my soul
    leave my body
    slowly,
    at will,
    and gently glide to
    every corner of
    the warm room.

    it dances on dimmed lights,
    and settles in
    the empty vase,
    like the arrival
    of a serendipitous
    spring.

    it is funny how
    we sometimes forget
    what feeling happy
    meant like.
    it is funny how
    we remember it
    with just the right amount of
    human touch.

    it is funny how we sometimes forget
    that joy needs to be penned down
    in permanence,
    in ink, in blood, in whatever
    that will keep it hanging in
    our sight.

    it is funny how
    i write today
    with happiness
    in my bones.

    ©champagnesupernova

  • champagnesupernova 129w

    We're with you, ladies. We'll put an end to patriarchy together.

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    Revolution.

    at day break, a bird readies
    flaps it's wings and
    by night it steadies.
    daylight dawns and dreams
    have risen,
    from graves of patriarchy,
    a home grown treason.

    singing songs of revolution
    that has long been coming,
    a sight to behold,
    the ultimate beckoning.
    come out and hang your heads
    in shame,
    come out and put your cultures
    to flame,
    we've heard this enough
    we'll hear this
    no more,
    the problem is us
    and our stifling folklore.

    put those in streets who
    cage the flighting bird,
    put those to end
    who follow the patriarchal herd,
    blame noone, men,
    the problem is within you,
    blame noone, men, you're part
    of this curfew.

    but be assured, that the
    day will come,
    when the tables shall turn
    and from your cultures
    you will run.

    but be assured
    when the cage brakes
    through,
    and the cracks of your sins
    subside,
    the reminders shall come in flames
    of agony,
    from the ashes the Phoenix
    shall rise.

    ©champagnesupernova

  • champagnesupernova 133w

    Playing by the rules only makes others happy.

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    what is this
    neatness that people
    seem to obsess
    over?

    being made to follow
    straight lines of
    discipline, for
    going to a place to
    celebrate freedom!
    what is this
    neatness, what is this order?

    reluctant faces wear it;
    like kids burdened
    with summer
    homework;
    like victorian women
    fitted into
    stifling corsets
    to please men
    who knew nothing
    about them.

    what is this
    obsession?
    when i want you
    sans the scent
    of the cloak of
    acceptance.

    what is this
    obsession?
    when i want you
    as the drunk man
    wants Paris
    on a chilly winter
    night.

    ©champagnesupernova

  • champagnesupernova 133w

    a burning bridge.

    how else to
    counter our aloneness
    than to find someone
    to be alone with.

    occasionally my mind
    wanders to thoughts
    of you,
    strange woman,
    now sleeping in
    a foreign town.

    i realise that you were
    like the river that was
    here yesterday and today,
    but the parts of you
    i caressed
    have now hastened
    away to a new
    sea.

    i am glad for
    you, though when i
    think about what i
    shall say to you
    if we accidentally share
    presence someday,
    i cannot think of words,
    but to clench you close to
    me, i think,
    would be imminently
    instinctive.

    it would be some
    peace to know
    that you're glad
    for me
    as well, and that
    you share some
    level of this
    instinct
    too.

  • champagnesupernova 134w

    Hello everyone. Hope you've been well. :)

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    you.

    they seldom paint
    and scribble shapes
    on old notebooks
    nowadays,
    and seldom do they find
    the flickering of lights
    worth halting for.

    they seldom
    lick the cream
    off their
    cold coffee.

    all this sophistication
    makes us
    believe that the
    children inside us
    need to rest
    when in the presence of
    each other.

    but if i don't hear
    what music you
    let loose to after
    locking your bedroom
    from the inside,
    i may go a whole lifetime
    being beside you
    and not breathing what
    you breathe
    and
    not tasting what
    you crave
    at half past loneliness.

    the rush of the
    city calls to
    me everyday,
    the rush of the city
    tells me that
    it is a sin to
    make love
    for little things.

    but when i come
    home and glance at you
    with both my
    mortal eyes,
    and put
    my arm around your
    waist,
    i understand
    that the city lies

    and i understand that
    you are
    my only truth.


    ©champagnesupernova

  • champagnesupernova 140w

    for the people.

    when our governments
    are voted into
    the offices at the
    heart of our
    shiniest cities, we
    gleam in hopes
    of seeing an end
    to our poverty.

    but for that,
    i opine,
    we need
    new laws, more than
    the implementation
    of the old,
    i think.

    say, for example,
    under the section
    on how to survive
    solitary,
    it should say
    "Nobody from this day hence
    shall be allowed to
    witness the catharsis
    of a rainshower
    alone"
    or, say,
    under the penal code
    on warmth, it
    should say,
    "Quilts, to be kept ready,
    and never to be used
    singularly"

    on a personal note
    one thing is
    certain.

    if they succeed
    at making laws
    as such,
    i shall succeed at
    becoming
    a good samaritan.

    ©champagnesupernova

  • champagnesupernova 140w

    Unpoetic.

    It has become
    boring to write
    about fears,
    about tribulations,
    about our fights
    against the
    unforgiving ticking
    of a strange
    human clock
    always
    calibrated to
    populist ways.

    But, I guess,
    like it or not,
    hate it if you must,
    or pretend to be
    lifeless on the
    inside,
    we're all stuck
    in this
    together.

    Let's get some
    cozy company,
    the sunset
    requests a hand
    to hold,
    there are mountains
    to be lost in,
    and seas, in
    dire need of
    some skinny dipping!

    Disappear and find
    abode,
    there's always something,

    Keep looking,
    Keep looking!

    ©champagnesupernova

  • champagnesupernova 141w

    what must the remedy be?

    of late,
    i have made it
    a habit to
    look at myself
    only at night,
    because the mirror
    can't hurt you
    in darkness.

    when you live your
    days, praying for
    a ceasefire,
    what other choice
    do you have?


    ©champagnesupernova