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  • cruisey 1d

    #end #momentsc

    Do you know how there are moments when the world moves so slowly you can feel your bones shifting, your mind tumbling? When you think that no matter what happens to you for the rest of your life, you will remember every last detail of that one minute forever?
    - Jodi Picoult

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    Threshold

    Blue walls. Pink curtains. 
    A small dressing room.
    Lady in her forties.
    A bed big enough.
    Man in his forties.
    Soft humming.
    Eyes closing.
    Lady dressing. 
    Man lying. 

    Minute passes. 
    Singing.
    Lyrics right. Beats wrong.
    Shadow of a smile.
    No interrupting. Rather enjoying. 
    /I see him lying as if he has all the worries in the world just not at the moment./
    She peeks. Annoyed.
    "Chop, chop"
    Hurries herself.
    He wakes. 
    Threw me a wink.
    Tucks in shirt. Buckles belt.
    "Ready and waiting"

    A minute later.
    Lights off. Threshold crossed. 
    I press myself against my room's wall.
    Ocean. An iron pressed cloth.
    A moment and a threshold. 
    Same ocean. A creased cloth.
    It was just a moment.
    And just a threshold. 
    But the air changed.
    That. There. 
    Everything happened in a moment.
    Yet. Yet it will stay forever.
    With me.
    /I thought that love would
    last for ever: I was wrong./
    Love is there. In moments.
    Just in small moments.

    ©cruisey

  • cruisey 1w

    #combination #once #wild
    PS: Words in " " belong to Srinithi and Sam respectively.

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    Someone once told me, If a poem doesn’t rhyme, it is still poetry. Because broken crayons don’t lose their colour, their essence and importance. They are still crayons.
    I’ve read Srinithi’s posts, and I find that you can write on something as simple as a word. “How perfect would this be ? If this exists in the real world.”
    I’ve read Sam’s posts, and I find that poetry can be a page full of bottled up emotions. “But i have so much left to say, feelings i want to portray, before i decay.”
    I read a lot of people without being acknowledged.
    I saw someone writing 
    a satire on Miraquill itself. 
    On rabri pao and religion.
    On a table knife.
    On a haircut.
    On usernames.
    Poetry is an assembly in words of thoughts running wild.

    On the other hand, there have been instances where it occurred to me that I was daydreaming because I was reading 
    a thesaurus and dictionary,
    DIY depression den,
    Search history,
    Instagram instances,
    Reeled reality.
    and calling it a write up.
    Anyways, that was me being uneducated.
    Poetry is anything written wholeheartedly.

    ©cruisey

  • cruisey 3w

    Classroom

    Things I thought I would have collected
    at the end of my school:
    Ink scribbled uniforms
    Dirty slam books
    Late night chats
    24/7 podcast speakers
    Curvy love letters
    Multilingual abuses
    Friend's multiple contacts
    Life long friends
    But I didn't.

  • cruisey 4w

    I write codes in my notebook
    in the lazy afternoons
    studying with a boy
    sitting across from me
    and fell in love with him
    just for the simple reason
    that he was obsessed with death.

    He wishes our teacher
    "Afternoon, ma'am"
    never starting with good.
    He walks with his shoulders
    a little hunched
    and his gait so tiresome,
    you would wonder
    and never get tired of it.
    And if you look at his hair
    a little longer,
    you will realize
    it's not styled that way
    but have been combed
    unruly with strands
    settling anywhere.

    And when our teacher
    takes a break
    because we can't find a solution,
    we crack jokes and laugh
    on how we would have to jump
    from her terrace
    atleast twice or thrice
    to really die.
    Or we argue on
    "why are we really living?"
    "To die‽"
    "Yes but then why?"
    "To fulfill a dream, I guess."
    "What's before dying?"
    "Some purpose, maybe."

    I always wear helmet
    while riding two wheelers
    because even though I know
    death's chasing me
    I don't want my parents
    to think my accident
    was a suicide or
    self-harm case.
    It's the other way round for him
    so he never wears one,
    has its brakes nullified
    and even puts on headphones.

    It's like a love triangle
    only that the third person
    isn't a person.
    Me chasing him,
    he chasing death
    and death chasing me
    maybe.

    This is a poem
    of my afternoons.
    This is a love poem,
    a deadly love for death.
    This is a death poem,
    a lovely death of love.

    ©cruisey
    20.09.21

  • cruisey 4w

    I am waiting
    For your voice to hear,
    Till then the feelings inside me are not clear.
    For a message, note or a call,
    To decide whether my love wins or has a mighty fall.

    I am waiting
    For a smile that is meant for me, that makes my day.
    My heart just dreams.
    For a tear that I should claim,
    Hug you hard and take away your pain.

    I am waiting
    For that care that makes me special.
    That makes me feel love and pleasure.
    For a tiny slap that marks my care,
    which corrects me out when I'm not fair?

    I am waiting
    For you to say those words
    That marks the beginning between the two of us.
    Don't worry I give you time to decide.
    For my love you have my entire life.
    Till then I'm sitting where we met.
    Waiting, waiting and waiting that's all I get.

    ©serotonin_seeker_
    20.09.2021

  • cruisey 4w

    19.09.2021

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    Lonely: Not a situation but a feeling.



    Lonely is a poor person with not a dime to store in bank, no family to make his stay at house worthwhile, neighbors don't know him and no friends to hang out with.
    // He is lonely by fate.
    His loneliness is by lack of surrounders.
    He hadn't a choice.
    He could complain.
    He cried at his loneliness.
    His disease is by place.

    Lonely is also a rich person with multiple bank accounts, a family to make his house a home, and colony of friends both business and life-long.
    // He is lonely by fault.
    His loneliness is his lack to look in his surroundings.
    He had a choice.
    He couldn't complain.
    He smiled at his loneliness.
    His disease is by a place in his mind.

    Which is worse?
    To be lonely when alone
    To be lonely by body
    Or
    To be lonely among people
    To be lonely by mind

  • cruisey 4w

    Money: A very good student but a very bad master.

    ~addy323

    ~||~

    Time and Money both were given equally brave and brilliant human being each.
    Time gave birth to a baby naturally. Money gave birth to a baby in a test tube. Time named the baby Pat Shines while Money named his baby Per Feck. Pat Shines simply brought smile on his face while Per Feck's smile had to be bought by gifts. Per Feck got full marks just like that while Pat Shines had average marks with ocean of knowledge. Per Feck bought friends by throwing money at them while Pat Shines earned friends by giving them time. Pat Shines kept his friends close but enemies closer while Per Feck confided in his money-hungry friends.
    Pat Shines with the help of his father perfected in patience. What he couldn't decipher was perfectness. It's a goal which we are all running towards to. But none of us quite makes it till there before death. Because it's not there. It's like an oasis in a desert a thirsty man sees but never reaches. It's an illusion we believe is a reality. It isn't and we should be perfectly immune to it. But Per Feck with the help of his father thought had bought or could still buy perfectness.
    Decades came and went. Time and Money never changed. Pat Shines earned money because he had his father by his side. But I don't know if Per Feck could earn time with his father at his side.

    ©cruisey
    19.09.2021

  • cruisey 5w

    #dewdrop
    Pun in the word running and stayed

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    One day while running I looked at the falling dewdrop on the leaf in the early dawn of the day. While I thought of how it resembled a teardrop. You stayed and tapped my forehead. Just like that, you told me how it resembled a teardrop, the one which slips down
    when you have hurt your stomach a lot,
    when you have your heart touched.

    ©cruisey
    15.09.2021

  • cruisey 5w

    15.09.2021

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    Secretly,
    We want something.
    Maybe we need it too.
    But we don't want to want it.
    Because we don't want to need it.

    Accidentally,
    We get it. Almost.
    But we don't recognize it.
    When we do, we throw it.
    Because we don't want to want it.

    Presently,
    We can't find it; for ourself.
    But we see it everywhere.
    In the books. On the streets.
    Just not within our reach.



    "But you don't seem to want it then why need it?"
    Maybe because things I thought
    I won't need then
    are the ones I don't want to want
    because unlike what I thought
    I need them now.

  • cruisey 6w

    Dear Self,

    Everything's temporary so don't sweat it.
    Everything happens for a reason.
    Don't sweat it so it's temporary.
    The truth is in the mystery.
    Remember yourself.
    Forgive and forget.
    Let it/them be.
    Wait.