41 posts
  • daunting_phoenix 55w


    Thank you so much for hosting this challenge Ma'am. Enjoyed this one as well. Love you❤

    Song: Run (BTS)

    Didn't choose this...I was just listening to it after reading the challenge post, and this happened xd

    Makes sense? I got a severe writersblock this time -_-



    Vivid dreams, lethal for the soul.
    Lucid nightmares, driving the mind insane;
    Uncertainly unfolding unrealistic poetries of mine,
    I'm periodically penning painful memories.

    In pastel hues you're painted,
    Smiling ardently as if never experienced pain before.
    Darkly tainted canvas I am,
    Smirking deviously as if misfortunes are all I see.

    Faded like the dull morning sky,
    Beauteous like the sparkling night sky.
    Can we share stories and secrets between us,
    Under this umbrella?
    I promise to listen to you all day and night,
    Just give me a chance.
    I wanna know how it feels to have someone,
    Even if it's for a day,
    Even if you'll forget this encounter tomorrow.
    I'll make sure you do.
    I'm not someone to be remembered,
    At least not by you.
    You're too good...too naive to associate yourself with me.
    You are like a sweet flower,
    Meant to bloom and flourish under the magnificent sun with others.
    I am a wreckage,
    Damaged by sins I committed myself,
    Meant to suffer in this stygian ruin,
    All alone.



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  • penelope_ 55w


    Tried! Phew couldn't!����‍♀️#septolet

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    a pastel
    filling colours

    to the raw
    base on my
    Imaginary canvas~

  • sproutedseeds 55w


    @writersnetwork thank you for the like ❤️

    This pic was captured by me today morning.

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    Nature's beauty in pastel shades
    on the natural canvas of creation
    captured through the lens.

  • _gk_07 56w


  • bubbly_bluebells 56w

    #wildc #pastelc#canvasc

    Locus on a single thought pastels hues in the sky basking in the sunshine.
    Magenta mirror sparks scarlet red under the canopy of moonlight
    More than strength you need an intention as main course to hold on butter during bitter moments
    Hence,canvas results twilight and wild child together

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  • wilmaneels1 56w

    What if we view life as a canvas or as pieces of paper
    We get to write, we get to sketch
    Some writers start a new chapter
    Others will add new storylines to an existing one
    When you take up your brush
    You either add to an already existing painting
    Or you choose a clean canvas and start anew
    But it's a choice
    You shouldn't be judge for your style
    Sometimes crooked lines and repeated words bring joy to others
    © 01062021

  • wordsofsh 56w

    I spill colors on the canvas of my face. They are never able to separate white from grey.


  • bclark2681 56w

    Own Canvas

    She's apathetic and melancholy
    With her life of tedium that's
    Been illustrated for her duration,
    Rather than continue blackened
    And berated, she will, upon her
    Canvas elucidate to the world
    Her majestically vibrant radiance

  • preetkanwal 56w

    A writer weaves words
    with emotional yarns ,
    warp n’ weft them into
    spectrum of hues ; interlacing
    the wide canvas of life,
    stitching with metaphors of creativity
    on loom of time since aeons .


  • bellemoon99 56w


    Writers' blood is ink, and their breath is poetry.

    Their scattered thoughts try to reconstruct the universe's veil.

    Each stranger a blank canvas that fills with colors once they read from their letter shaped tears and smiles.

    Writers change the world phrase by phrase. They are magicians that know true words are not listened or read, they are felt with the heart.

    Ink away, little magician, show me a new world. Show me life. Remind me our worth.

  • say_me_krish 56w

    | People who died the eternal way |

    A writer is a 120 months young kid who is tired of seeing his benchmates trying hard to memorize a Shakespearean sonnet, weeping upon the fact that the author's rhymes which rhymed iambic metaphors weren't anything to anyone anymore. He decides to write a poem one day, whose verses would flow like oceans through hearts, and would never feel drained of being intonated as dry as dust.

    A writer is a twenty five years aged lady who just came out from the hospital grasping the reports in her hands, with a surprise of having a sesquipedalian tumor in her brain. Her husband asks what the introspections say about, and she canvassed it all behind her salmon lips and gave his cheek three kisses, one for lying, the other for hiding, and another, for being prepared to label herself in her poems as a fiction.

    A writer is a forty autumns old father who gently holds hands of his dear five springs old child named Metaphor asking him for a promise that he'll never be left alone. His wife Words smiles at the bedroom listening to his speech. She wonders that the poems which are eternal stand on promises given by the child to his father, and feels butterflies flying inside her.

    A writer is a sixty year old woman who lately coughed a simile and hiccupped new collocations a hundred times. She sits with her walking stick in the balcony, desiring to have got a coughing disease years before. When she sees her rustic books and frames, all she could focus on with her clumsy round spectacles are spaces between her poetic stanzas, which were promised a few more breaths of words. And yet, they died. She smiles helplessly.

    The writer too drifted to the heavens, but what stayed were those artworks. Poems. Words. Metaphors.

    ~ S r i K r i s h n a  P  S | June 01, 2021

    @sereiin You were the force behind this piece ♥️
    @writersnetwork (73, 13) @writersbay #skp_writes #canvasc #writers #wod

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  • 300roses 56w

    The echoes
    of my soul are
    painted in poetic tones
    & wrapped in lyrical notes
    on the canvas of
    my heart wall.


  • milliondreamsarekeepingmeawake 56w

    She started writing when he left her
    Thousands of emotions no one to listen
    Thousands of wounds no one to heal
    Lonely nights with painful thoughts
    broken promises ripped her heart apart
    Despondent cracks on the walls of her delicate heart

    She started scribbling her melancholic thoughts
    Decorating verses with the shards of her soul
    Maleficent nightmares morphing into metaphors
    She painted her canvas with anger guilt and tears
    Her saudade started evaporating agonies of reader's heart

    She rejoiced lightening the candels of hope
    She kept inking the melodies of love
    Capturing the rhythms of nature
    She found beauty in each creation of god
    and kept building the castle of odes

    walls engulfed with the sonnets of love and mysteries
    Doors painted with the fictional poetic arts
    Windows shielded with the baladries of hope and strength
    Floors covered with the doggerel verses of melancholy
    Ceilings wrapped with the Limericks of struggle and bliss
    Radiating an aura of paradise

    #writers #mirakee
    @mirakee @writersnetwork
    #wod #canvasc #JEN_WNLIKE
    Thanks for the ❤️ @writersnetwork

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    walls engulfed with the sonnets of love and mysteries
    Doors painted with the fictional poetic arts
    Windows shielded with the baladries of hope and strength
    Floors covered with the doggerel verses of melancholy
    Ceilings wrapped with the Limericks of struggle and bliss
    Radiating an aura of paradise


  • pathways_of_words 56w

    This Canvas

    *Anfractuous- full of windings and turnings 

    This canvas, nearly half full of invisible ink. 
    Only to be seen when this life is done.
    Where anfractuous roads resume their course of smoothness and pot hole sinks.
    Colors brightest spots, certain splotchy fades, some ink runs.

  • waitaminute 56w


  • _firefly 56w

    The canvas of a writer's eye,
    covered in his blood
    is never called red,
    it's called words,
    agonized by his own thoughts,
    slaughtering him,
    inch by inch,
    to paint a masterpiece.

    The maze of a writer's brain,
    scathed by the analysis
    of each atom he encounters,
    is a battleground,
    for his own emotions,
    dying to blacken the pages
    of his old journal covered with dust.

    The purity of a writer's soul,
    is whiter than the whitest lilies,
    tinged with a hue of pain,
    for none is born a writer,
    he has to kill enough poetic thoughts,
    inside him for a poetic rebirth.

    The reality of a writer's life,
    is more of a hallucination,
    created out of confusion in his head,
    and words are merely a bridge,
    to connect with facade of the world,
    and a futile attempt to see it,
    because writers aren't affiliated
    to this dimension.


    @_sifar_ here you go. Ily❤

    @morsel so that you see this post. Ily��

    @writersnetwork thank you so much ��✨


    #writer #canvasc

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  • varsine 56w

    {I} I hereby begin a tale, written amidst the unwritten poem created beautifully, with laces beneath and up and side, with pearls near head and a little light, i talk about a canvas i tried to fix near to where my orange tree lies and i sit to often lie. I speak of emptiness. I'm here to hear her empty canvas.

    {II} "Where she puts her vermilion, i put a few metaphors". Obsession leaves a letter to her red piece of art and i keep gazing and gazing and gazing.Through the window i brush a little haze as i see her eyebrows, softly diving through the kalon she holds. I drink enough of her sleek nose and swing towards the end where i stuck. I stuck and just then blown away, i feel, this is where she breathes.

    {III} Staircases call me and i run down. Obviously not straight but by hanging a little here and more there. Something aches. I turn and it's her wide and kind home, she's made out of her body. Her heart. Her chest. I begin to unleash her beats and find tunes missing, i dare up my eyelids but then look down of her "eyes" which if i could see for long, i would ecstatically click my last moments in.

    {IV} She wore a gentleman's attire, held the hands of a writer, who's a he. He kissed her through the phases of time, when needed. He praised her on days, he decided. Tonight, pablo neruda's saddest lines are a part of her, her undervalued eyes she threw, she wore the body of monster, a wolf was awake and she painted for him~ what hell used to knock like. Who's this he here ? If you guessed, she's talking to her sunset that doesn't talk of endings but becomes one and doesn't end. He's her prose.

    {V}My ink is tired. Her words aren't. We're almost at the edge and her feet's fingers read my mother at sixty six to me. I've taught myself to take loan only from a homeless poet I gathered some tears from my eyes. I'm one. A poet deprives four walls, you call home. They have in them, the warmth one with a home doesn't.This she, to me is my meaning to life, i see her veins giving me all the blessings straight from the stars, i would never touch.

    {V} I am the empty canvas, i talked everywhere about. A vagabond who has nothing but still is full of everything. I steal colours from your sky and give you a little from mine. I'm a little guilty when it comes to kindness, i envy her. Every her. I envy myself for being kind at places where sun melts into ice. Her sleeves may not to be to the full length, her dignity shall always remain intact. I state and put my lilies. To my own grave. My ink's abulia whispered in.I took a pause and reflected what i just wrote.

    Thank you for the repost ♥ you made my day @writersbay

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    Her Empty Canvas



  • serrated_ink 56w

    In the head,
    Chaos far and wide
    Thoughts tangled
    Up the ride
    She felt some effulgence
    And then, she writes..

    Feelings, Fracases,
    or Fake scenarios
    are her lime light..

    The hecks nearby
    Reading the faces and the mind
    She inks her thoughts, on the serrated sheet of nights..

    Escaping this world
    Into the imaginary craft
    Milieu imprints the edges of her life..

    A writer's paradise shaded
    In crimson red
    And her pen bleeds
    On the white canvas
    When she tells her story
    With some brio
    To her heart..

    #wod #pod #feelings #thoughts
    #writers #canvasc #writer #canvas #writersnetwork #mirakee #miraquill

    Pic credit to the rightful owner..♥


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    Escaping this world
    Into the imaginary craft
    Milieu imprints the edges of her life..


  • anamika17 56w

    I'm that blank canvas
    Which wants your paintbrush
    To draw with your love
    sketch while you (fore)play
    colour me adding your own
    But the background must be
    Fulfilled by the desires
    we crave for so long .
    Your craftsmanship ,
    Amazingly astonishing,
    The glowing vibrant
    Colours spread over me
    Can add something more
    To your mesmerizing piece of art.
    More powerful than the words,
    It can leave more impact
    Over you and me.
    During the days of draught,
    It'll bring rain of love.
    My cosy , comforting,canvas
    You've become more than a mirror
    I can see me through you.

  • puranidiary 56w

    Whoever scribble scar of silence to make life brighter
    Adoring the hurdles with hopenotes is a true writer..

    Just a try.... ��
    @writersnetwork .... ��ok maybe a read..
    #writers #pod #wod #dailychallenges #belong #canvasc
    @mirakee ��

    @inked_selenophile @fromwitchpen @lovesmessenger @anautumnleaf ... Hehe i tried to include your username above.. ��ik it sounds silly.. But thanku for being my constant..

    ..... Will be active here in bits &pieces for now i will enjoy my kitkat break... :-)

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    My soul a silent story dressed up in writer's robe
    Rhythm of muse all muffled often masked in mob

    My ink flows free like brook on withered page
    Carrying sediment of life settle down its rage

    On canvas of emotions with brushes of valour
    I paint love on faded facet of heart to turn it lover

    I glitter splashes of pain in my scribbled fury
    Spaces between syllables screams my life story

    Amidst storm of memories that tickles my bone
    I scrawl terrifying truths on terra of lies all alone

    Often i hide in shield of synonyms in daylight hour
    So i pour love for stars in my magical metaphors

    Coffin of crumbled love often splits smilies of fire
    I collect pearl of tears to extinguish burning desire

    Some read my bleeding verses and title me freak
    I shut those echo in line breaks & let my eye speak

    Over the years of dwelling my days in this crowd
    I write hopenotes of silence to broken heart around

    Some days i potray shiny moon adoring its scars
    Some days i seize autumn leaves in ink for decor

    threads of peace provides shattered soul a stitch
    Words Alike protective charms casted by witch

    For part of crowd my tales acts as love messenger
    For some mere a paragraph written by a stranger

    Some call it love ballads crumbled in poetic art
    Some call it mere pieces of writer's broken heart

    My quill giggles in verses, poems and soulful song
    exist as writer everywhere, but only to few i belong