It's not the torn books which matter, it's the pages which repair billions of broken souls that do...

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  • create_and_compose 30w


    3 A.M.
    Laying on the bedroom floor,
    My head rests on the side of the bed,
    Lights are out and my fingers inked.
    My diary finally closed.
    Couple of scribbled pages and a tear-stained face later,
    I realize I am “happy”.

    9 A.M.
    Leaning out of my window,
    A gelid breeze gushing under my nose,
    The emerald leaves of the tree abreast,
    Giggling and waving and swaying,
    In the warm sunshine,
    A sneeze and a zone-out later,
    I cognize I am “happy”.

    7 P.M.
    A room full of people,
    Familiar faces, familiar jokes,
    Cliched gossips, cliched chuckles,
    A couple of laughs and a feeling of a certain emptiness later,
    I think I am “happy”.
    9 P.M.
    Walking home, alone,
    Counting my footsteps,
    Pretending to be a part of a music video,
    Laughing at the reminisce of an overused, cliched
    And customary joke at the meet up.
    After one last chortle and shrugging off a mean comment,
    I register I am “happy”.

    12 A.M.
    Laying under the blanket,
    Reading my e-book,
    And listening to Taylor Swift,
    Whilst casually browsing Instagram once a while,
    I stifle my hilarity on reading a savage roast,
    Careful not to wake the ones already sound asleep,
    A few likes and yawns later,
    When, I close my eyes,
    I discern I am “happy”.

    11 A.M.
    I opened my mouth to say something,
    But closed it just the same,
    I had the alphabets,
    Maybe the rearrangement to make ‘em words,
    Was missing.
    An ignorant, mean, inhumane comment,
    My breath got caught, trying my hardest,
    To not break down. I smile,
    The need to justify dissipated,
    Yet another time of being misunderstood,
    And several steps in the right direction later,
    I am “happy”.
    This is true happiness, I knew.
    In that moment, by taking that one right step.
    You see, “happy” like many other things in life,
    Isn’t definable.
    It’s like those fictitious castles in the air,
    It doesn’t have a shape, a form,
    It isn’t substantial and I guess that’s the beauty of it,
    You can feel hurt, but still be happy,
    You may be empty but still be happy,
    “happy” isn’t a utopian trail of positivity,
    “happy” is the contentment of the acceptance of reality.
    It is the realization, an enigmatic cognization of how brutal this world is,
    That the world is bad, but, contains plenty of good.
    Its that enlightenment of knowing that you’re alone,
    But not always lonely.
    It’s a hope of the better times,
    No, “happy” is not laughs and giggles,
    “happy” is the understanding that it isn't supposed to always be laughs and giggles,
    And after all, life isn’t about how to survive the storm, it’s about how to dance in the rain,
    And “happy” is the rain, in which I hope you’ll dance, always :)

    @eclipsed_sun @smblack


    Just a midnight rambling :)

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  • create_and_compose 51w

    रेप Culture.
    क्या काहू?
    क्या अब भी कुछ कहना बाकी है?
    खयालात तो बहुत है,
    लेकिन शब्द होते हुए भी,
    आज अपने आप को निशब्द महसूस करती हूं।

    Hands, I feel hands,
    All over me, hands,
    That don't belong here,
    Hands that disgust me,
    Hands that forcefully muffled,
    My desperate cries for help,
    Hands that make me feel violated,
    Hands that leave traces,
    Of the crime,
    They remind me,
    Of my vulnerability,

    रोती आज मैं भी हूं,
    और रोता वे भी है,
    बस फर्क शायद इतना है,
    कि मेरे हज़ार बार बोलने पर भी,
    तुम नहीं सुनें, और उसे एक बार भी,
    बोलने की हिममत ही ना हुई,

    I lay on my bed,
    Wondering how to tell,
    And to whom?
    Will anyone ever believe me?
    Or would they think,
    I am just putting on a show,
    Just because I am a boy?
    There's this uneasiness in the pit of my stomach,
    A certain void, I wished to get drowned in,
    I am ashamed of the sins I didn't commit,
    Or perhaps, it was all my fault?

    काश, मेरी छोटी स्कर्ट से पहले,
    लोगों को अपनी छोटी सोच को,
    बढ़ाने के लिए सिखाया जाता,
    क्योंकि इस बार,
    न ही मैं दुखी हूं, न ही गुस्सा,
    बस थक गई हूं,
    बार बार दोरह कर,
    बार बार यह बता कर,
    कि 'नहीं' का मतलब 'नहीं' ही होता है,
    कि मेरा जिस्म तुम्हारा कोई खिलौना नहीं,
    थक गई हूं बार बार ट्वीट करके,
    Instagram पर पोस्ट करके,
    या एक YouTube वीडियो बना करके,
    थक गई हूं यह सीखाते सीखाते,
    कि लोगों की कर्दर करो,
    कि किसी की मां, बहन या बेटी होने के नाते नहीं,
    बल्कि एक इंसान होने के नाते मेरी कर्दर करो,
    थक गई हूं यह सोचते सोचते,
    बार बार अपने आप को पूछते पूछते,
    कि यह करते हुए, क्या एक बार भी तुम्हारे हाथ न कापे?
    थक गई हूं।

    We see her,
    In her room,
    Muffling her cries,
    So that we don't know,
    But how could we not hear?
    How could we be unaware of,
    What our child's going through?
    It's been 10 years, since it happened,
    And not a day has gone without wondering,
    What if we were there?
    What if she hadn't been there alone that day?
    What if the circumstances were different,
    What if...

    आज सोफ़ा पर बैठे,
    टीवी पर न्यूज देखती हूं,
    एक और केस की हेडलाइन देख,
    सोचती हूं, क्या कल मेरी बारी तो नहीं?

    #writingcommunity #wordvomit #randomramblings #breathingsofmysoul #blehblehbleh #igdaily#teenagewritersofinstagram #globalagepoetry #globalagecaption #globalagetyro #tacendaartistry #writers_den_ #writersnetwork #mirakeewriters #midnightmusings #midnightscribbles #teenagepoetsofinstagram #poetrycommunity #poetsofindia #poemoftheday #quotesdaily #quoteoftheday #hathrasrapecase

    @smblack @_aesthete_ @tk_a2n @law1iet @2gud2btru_

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  • create_and_compose 53w


    आज फिर रात दो बजे,
    मेरे रूह की हलचल को,
    इन पन्नों में घर सा मिला।


  • create_and_compose 56w

    @void be happy I posted.������

    Okay, so quick confession, I don’t know why I love this verse so much. Like the poem on the whole is beautiful, but this verse is the best poetic piece I have come across.
    The verse kinda warms your heart. Especially the last 2 lines. One of the reasons why I love this piece so much and Emily Dickinson on the whole is maybe because she normalises death and even makes it sound melodic. And we really need to normalise death.

    I'd love to know your views on this. ��

    @smblack @tk_a2n @2gud2btru @law1iet.

    #writersnetwork #writerstolli #quoteoftheday #poetryofmirakee

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    Because I could not stop for death -
    He kindly stopped for me -
    The carriage held all but ourselves -
    And Immortality

    ~Emily Dickinson
    (Because I could not stop for death.)

  • create_and_compose 58w

    HOPE 2.0

    I was nine then,
    I am fifteen now.
    “Hope” I figured had a different meaning then,
    It sure does have a different meaning now.
    It was serene then,
    It’s complicated now.
    It came easy then,
    It’s… well it’s…I am not sure what it is now.
    I remember giving hope a metaphorical reference,
    To the silver lines of a cloud,
    “Every cloud has silver line”,
    My nine-year-old chanting,
    Found a line in my first actual poem, “Hope”.
    But now as I see it,
    Not every cloud has a silver line.
    There’re clouds which are magnanimous,
    There’re clouds darker than venta black,
    There’re clouds so dense,
    You can’t help but wonder if the sky will ever be clear,
    There are clouds producing the heaviest of the lightnings,
    There are clouds producing the loudest of the thunders,
    There’re clouds shaking your entire core,
    Questioning your very existence,
    But then, there’s this one cloud,
    A tiny little one,
    Perhaps not even visible in the sky,
    That one cloud may have a silver lining,
    That one cloud is your hope.
    When I was young,
    Hope to me, danced with the winds,
    That blew kisses on my face as I opened my window each morning,
    It waved to me,
    As the emerald leaves on the tree in my baranda,
    Swayed in glee,
    It beamed at me,
    As the sunflowers twinkled in the golden sunshine,
    It…it was just there,
    In my every breath,
    Every step, every giggle,
    Every hop.
    But now, it’s like I am caught up,
    In the deep blue seas of chaos,
    The waves are high, belief low,
    The swirling storms resonate my core,
    The cold biting air, mock the emptiness of my soul,
    My hair matted, sticking to my face for support,
    I am alone. I always have been.
    My breaths are heavy, my conscious lost,
    My vision blurring, my eyes dozing off,
    That’s when I see, a little speck of light in the sea,
    It’s a figment of my imagination, or a hallucination perhaps
    Maybe it’s simply just a delusion.
    As spontaneously as it flickered, it vanished,
    But instilled in me a desire,
    And so, I swam, to find that little speck of luminesce,
    To find my own lighthouse,
    When I was young,
    Hope bloomed in the room,
    Proliferating its fragrance in every nook,
    But now, it is just a remnant, indistinct odor,
    In a foul-smelling, nose-stinging construction site.
    As you grow, you need to fight the fiercest of the storms
    To find your hope.
    It is a real thing now, not just a beautiful naïve illusion.
    I was nine then,
    I am fifteen now.
    “Hope” I figured had a different meaning then,
    It sure does have a different meaning now.
    But there’s this one thing that was constant then,
    And it is constant now,
    I ended my eight-line poem like this then,
    I am it ending it the same way now,
    Always have hope,
    And never lose it.

    @void look I posted :).
    Also I need to tell you all something. Hope was my first actual poem, I wrote when I was 9. And this is just change of perspective since then.
    Hope you all like it. ;)

    #writersnetwork #writerstolli #quoteoftheday #poetryofmirakee #mirakeewriters #readwriteunite

    @smblack @tk_a2n @law1iet @2gud2btru

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  • create_and_compose 62w


    Her pain was dipped in metaphors,
    Sprinkled with rhymes,
    Sautéed in honey,
    Garnished with stars
    And finally wrapped into a poetry. . .


  • create_and_compose 63w

    Gelid wintry dawn,
    The sky boasting it's royal scarlett hues,
    Trails of golden sunshine,
    Dazzled upon the petals of the
    Lone wallflower in blue,
    As it emerged from the tattered crimson brick,
    On the dust-laden sidewalk.
    A soft breeze gushes by,
    Kissing the wallflower underneath,
    The prussian petals sway in glee,
    Aknowleging the wind that joyfully sings,
    Intoxicated by the winds lullaby,
    A prussian petal follows it's lead,
    Humming the lullaby, it flies off with wind,
    The four remnant petals curl up in fear,
    And slowly return back to their intial sphere,
    The sky is now a pleasant shade of deep orange,
    With yellow freckles,
    A ringing sound is heard,
    A cycle swiftly slides past the wall flower,
    Slicing a petal along with,
    Staining the sidewalk with a muddy trail of its tires,
    And printing upon the wallflower shudders from shock,
    The remnant three petals embracing each other tight, holding onto dear life.
    Sky is washed by a citric hue now,
    The three petalled wallflower beaming in the apricity of daylight,
    Sporadically, senses a shower of a dense liquid with a gush of wind,
    pulling away a petal,
    An adorable woof is heard,
    Ah! When did snow grow up so much?
    The remnant two petals faintly smiled,
    Then deeply sighed,
    They tried to stand right back up,
    But drooping gave 'em a greater comfort.
    The sky yet again sported a different hue,
    This time it was a menacing baby blue,
    In their droopy state,
    The petals cognized thundering footsteps,
    And approaching giggles,
    Jesus, they were far too near,
    Another gaint lep and three year old Mary,
    Smothered yet another petal to death.
    The last petal of the Lone wallflower,
    Was lonely now,
    It felt a tickling sensation which turned into razor sharp cuts,
    As it was pulled off the source by the beak of a mocking bird,
    The last petal of the Lone wallflower died,
    Rubbing off every evidence of its existence,
    And it would be a lie, if I say the dynamic sky didn't cry.
    It rained heavily for days and nights,
    Then, one fine morning ,
    Yet another wallflower danced,
    As it bloomed in the grey skies...

    #writersnetwork #typewriter #writerstolli #quoteoftheday #poetryofmirakee #readwriteunite #writerslife #blueskiesandsunshine #wallflowerblush #latelatethoughts #breathingsoul #mirakeewriters #aestheticallyyou #soulawakenings
    @nubvigant @2gud2btru @smblack

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  • create_and_compose 65w

    Word Prompt:

    Write a 6 word short tale on Mystery

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    She is an angelic, ethereal enigma.


  • create_and_compose 65w

    I was told, poetry should rhyme,
    So I obliged,
    I wrote a line,
    Then searched for a word that rhymes.
    I changed my words, I altered my musings just to fit in the 'standard',
    It was difficult to find words that sounded so similar,
    It was unsettling for me to change my thoughts just to make them rhyme.
    "It flows better that way" they said and it kept ringing in my mind,
    So whenever I sat, with a paper and a pen,
    Words ceased to ooze out from my soul,
    'Coz I looked for utopia in this flawed world,
    I tried to machine-cut my natural words,
    I tried to be perfect with my verses,
    'Coz I thought only then the they will worthy, worthy enough to be validated.
    I tried chaining my notions and my words to some stupid norm,
    It felt constricting to be bound with so many regulations,
    When I just desired to bear my heart on a paper,
    Poetry, it is more than than an amalgamation of words,
    It is the cry of a soul.
    How then, can I limit such a sacred emotion?
    'Coz as I grew up, I realised,
    Poetry, it isn't about shine and shimmer,
    It's about scars and crevices,
    It's about marks and stains,
    It's about those minutest details,
    It's about bruises and wounds,
    It's about hurt and relief,
    It's about joy and grief,
    It's about love, it's about envy,
    It's about poise, it's about grace,
    It's about those crooked smiles,
    It's about coffee stained tables,
    It's about a memory so faded,
    That it's barely alive,
    It's about those inside jokes,
    It's about those midnight giggles,
    It's about those starry spheres,
    It's about the muffled tears,
    It's about war, it's about peace,
    But most importantly,
    It's about you and me.
    And we, we're far from perfect
    We are flawed, we are scarred, we're bruised,
    Why then, should our poetry flow flawlessly ?
    Why then, should it be smooth as honey?
    There's this uncanny rhythm,
    In tainted things ,
    There's a miraculous flow,
    On sinned roads,
    There's a magnificent beauty,
    In scars, in marks, in cuts.
    There's immense power
    In joy and grief, in hurt and relief,
    There's this poise,
    In your crumbled castles.
    There's serenity,
    In your imperfect giggles.
    There's peace,
    On that coffee stained table.
    And your crooked smiles?
    They're lovable.
    But most of all,
    That broken crown on your head?
    It's dazzling.
    It's a mark of growth,
    It's a mark of strength,
    It's a mark of control,
    On the mess in your head.
    So that's why, in the world full of rhyming words, 
    I choose to be a free verse.


    @writersnetwork @nubvigant @smblack @writerstolli @rakhee #write

    #quoteoftheday #thoughtbubble #midnightthoughts #randomramblings #poetryofmirakee #mirakeewriters #freeverse #rhymingwords #breathingsoul #quarantineandchill #readandshare

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    Rhyming Words.
    (Read the caption.)

  • create_and_compose 66w


    She believed she was a broken soul, little did she know that broken gems only reflect light more...