Give me sometime. I will read you, I want to.

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  • daffodilpearlzz 1d

    Thank you for the like and repost WN ��
    EC ��

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    It is no more the metropolis
    when the train passes the village station.
    Green fields and big trees surround us,
    on both sides, alike; 'tis the country side now!
    Leaves of the village trees murmur with winds,
    the ones of the city, silenced by noise and traffic.
    Aroma of fresh green nature, the wind carries it,
    Garbage's foul smell, winds shed 'em away
    before they travel from city to countryside.

    To never lose the vibe I get each time
    I come here, try to hold the wind in my palms.
    Birds fly past the fields, in grandeur and beauté.
    The komorebi between the village trees
    forms a complete spectrum above the greenery.
    To name a few, a few houses here 'n' there.
    Yet, with pleasing, glorifying, mesmerizing welkin.

    Many a time, have I lost my poetry in its nature,
    Not alike when 'twas lost in packed tins of disdain
    Many a time, have my wings found freedom
    In the aethers of the farms of the countryside.
    Many a time, have my eyes got scattered here,
    In its beauty; monochromatic yet artistic.
    Many a time, have my feet found its pathway here,
    In the muds of its land, blessed by a farmer's feet.
    Many a time, have the trees spoken to me,
    Happiness and life; that it exists only here.
    Perhaps yes, it does. For some, or all.

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
    Sat 16 Oct 2021

  • daffodilpearlzz 3d

    I'm a poet, stuck between
    thoughts and metaphors,
    I fight between reality and
    poetry to let my allegories
    sail freely in the ocean of
    freedom surrendering to

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
    Wed 13 Oct 2021

  • daffodilpearlzz 4d

    Why do I love my colour sets more than anything else? Each time someone asks me to throw away the broken crayons in my bag to the garbage, I feel like I encase them in coffins and asphyxiate them whilst the art in me also gets throttled and remain breathless. Goals hadn't been extant for so long and now it seems like they still thrive. Just that the depth to which they have sunken seems fathomless.

    Today will remain as just another day of anticipations for an upcoming future and a signature of regrets of yesterdays sealed at the bottom of its page. Life now feels like a ride on a parachute. Risky. Adventurous. Yet thrilling and enjoyable.

    I remember once I wrote in a poem, "time is a magician". Indeed it is. It reminds me of the graph of a sine function that is 0 at some points and a complete 1 at some other points. There are points where it takes positive values and points where it takes negative values. But at the end of the day, nothing persists for long. It keeps changing and the graph is continuous and differentiable everywhere.

    There has been times when I craved to draw something in my artbook and now, when it seems like the right time to do this, I'm rushing behind the colors of poetry. When we cleaned our room recently, I got a bag full of broken crayons. I could've thrown it into the garbage and bought another set. But there's a bond that will never break. If I do, I will remain as that artist who dispersed her art in the trashbin surrendering to the cacophonies and noisy guffaws around me.

    This is a confession I make. To poetry. To art. To me. For not being in where I should be. For placing each other in the wrong places. For building coffins for excitement and saving time for frustration.

    Things will come and go. Seems like, it is a painless writers' block with painful wings and wounded feet. But it shall too pass and a day will arrive when happiness and poetry rests under the same roof.

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
    Wed 13 Oct 2021
    #wod #combination #confessionc

    Set A : empty, feet
    Set B : Broken crayons in my bag...

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    Things will come and go. Seems like, it is a painless writers' block with painful wings and wounded feet. But it shall too pass and a day will arrive when happiness and poetry rests under the same roof.


  • daffodilpearlzz 5d

    Tender hopes were like a fragile demitasse of cappuccino
    I missed to have from the coffee shops of the past.

    But some dusty diaries still smell like hope's rising aroma
    and look like the coffee stained pages of a life's dairy

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
    Tue 12 Oct 2021

  • daffodilpearlzz 5d

    –· DRAMATIC ·–

    The poet said, "I'm the moon."
    Pain disguised as the darkness of night.
    Poetry leaked, from the moonlight.
    Metaphors became the mangata.

    The moment when poetry discovered me,
    every quixotic spark of joy turned into reality.

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
    Mon 11 Oct 2021

  • daffodilpearlzz 1w

    Where poems are,
    there bravery is.

    #wild Trying to get back into the track of serene poetry.
    Sehnsucht(n.)(German): Yearning, longing

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    —• Off the dias of silences •—

    Never knew when
    the euphonies turned to macabres
    the music turned to cacophonies.
    Wild memories and mild fears
    nestled in syzygy; one day.
    Aeons ago, did euphoria swerve,
    in the offshoots of echinacea.
    Cadences of sonatas were filled
    with cryptic guffaws of scary silences.

    Time has passed, evolved.
    Some noises got chomped
    in the boulevards of serene silences;
    Silences, which now serenade
    for the sehnsuchts of many; to come true.

    Where poems are,
    there bravery is.

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
    Mon 11 Oct 2021

  • daffodilpearlzz 1w

    #uralivec I know I didn't try my level best for this poem, especially the ending. Thank you for reading, if you've. Lots of love to all my dear friends.

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    With the S E L F

    Today the melancholy surrenders
    infront of the bond between you and I.

    For the ocean, it is the color blue
    between its crests and troughs.
    Bonding the love and self in one string.

    For the tree, it is the leaf and the branch,
    bonding the pride of its existence
    by its veins; the self and self's.
    A bond between two
    nubivagant halves
    of an existing self.

    For the seasons, 'tis as tight as
    the one betwixt september rains
    and october winds; a gradient in the self.

    For the artist, it is the tangerine
    of yellow and orange; so beguile.
    The crimson of red blending
    consistently into the hues of saffrons.

    For the poet, it is the heart-touching connectivity
    between the metaphors and similes of poetry.
    To hold the hands of one, and scream
    to the next half of itself, of how beautiful
    the poetry they've created together is.

    For the marionette, it is the bond
    between its strings and rhythm.
    Waving in the air to say a hello
    to people who listen keenly for smiles in disdain.

    For the musician, it is the beauté
    between the raga of the song
    and the tone of his voice,
    with his expressions tightening the bond.

    For the umbrella, it is the warmth
    between the hands of the holder and its handle,
    bonding as if they will never go apart, afar.

    For the magician, it is the string
    between his wand and the brim
    of the minds her audience.

    For the nature, it is the bond between
    the bonds in itself and the eyes in her mind.

    With the self,
    every poetry will surrender,
    every art will stagnate,
    every tune will vibrate,
    every person will meditate,
    every sorrow will disappear,
    to become a soul that never weeps
    because of whom one is,
    instead feels in the depths of one's heart,
    "You are alive."

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~Bhavya
    Sun 10 Oct 2021

  • daffodilpearlzz 4w

    As the poets say, they live and end in poetry.

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~Bhavya
    Tue 21 Sept 2021

  • daffodilpearlzz 4w

    This line was originally written along with my poem
    "THE (G)OLDEN"

    The poem is about a friend of the protagonist who passed away of pneumonia.


    Thank you for the like WN ��

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    Where memories are, there you exist.

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
    Tue 21 Sept 2021

  • daffodilpearlzz 4w

    "Poetry is an orphan of silence." - Charles Simic

    Thank you for the like and repost WN ��

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    —• D U S T E D •—

    { What if it is a product of the cacophonies in one's self? }

    I took my old diary
    and felt poetry leaking
    from its brims.
    I folded it.
    It reflected
    a caged heart.
    But poetry still
    leaked from its folds.
    I opened it.
    It symbolised
    a lost mind
    and its poetry
    diffused into air
    from the surface.

    I looked at the mirror.

    Opened another diary,
    at my eyelids.

    Felt the same.

    Some burnt metaphors were stacked in a deserted corner and they shout in silence. The noise - a poet called it poetry.

    ©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
    Mon 20 Sep 2021