27801 posts
  • poetrypastel_ 1h

    Every night
    The moon sang
    For her
    Lullabies full of
    As she immersed
    In the blues
    Of life.

  • rimi_ojha 2h

    She is the moonlight, underneath the dark,melancholy sky.

    She is that blazing wave, deep and intense.
    Hard to swim, easy to drown.

    She is the fragrance of spring blossoms,
    that lingers in my heart,
    everytime she cwtches.

    She is the only one, who holds my fragile emotions in her steady heart.

    She is the poetess, who weaves the verses of tarnished feelings in her 'life' named poetry.

    She is the 'pragmatic'sunset among 'optimistic' sunrises .

    She is the hymn of 'Love',
    only audible to pure ears.

    She is my trusted , evergreen thorn among withered ,nefarious roses.

    She is my stolen reflection.


    #wod #character @writersnetwork @miraquill @the_muted_voice @iam_ssk #ceesreposts
    ( cwtch : Welsh word for a cuddle or hug)

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    She is that unbloomed flower plucked by roguish hands,
    still spreading the fragrance of hope.


  • _solitaire_ 7h

    Finding answers to the questions unknown
    Towards the sorrow in an empty dome
    Travelling roads of the unheard chaos
    To which there is no end nor an escape
    But there is no hurry
    Because there is no home :")


  • mrunalinideo 7h

    The world was washed in reds.
    Tranquil before the light ebbs.
    Vibrant before it fades.
    Before the twilight laves.
    Somewhere a lark sang.
    A sound of aching grief.
    Beautiful in its sadness.
    Glorious even in loneliness.
    For the death of day or the birth of night.
    It was a song.
    For the joyful pain or the painful joy.
    To whomever whatever feels right.

    She sat there. On the bench.
    With world inflamed around.
    Not quite knowing how the amber touched her.
    How she shone like a beacon.
    All golden and bright curves.
    She was all soft curves.
    Like languid strokes of fingers on heated skin.
    Breezes tangled in her hair. Content to play.
    Black with the touch of browns swayed here and there.

    On knees. Crouched though she was.
    She was not all blue. There were lilacs and violets in her too.
    She heard the lark mourn. And faced the dying sky.
    It was a face of anguish and love.
    Eyes that spoke of sorrow.
    Eyes that spoke of love.
    Lips that easily smiled yet not often enough.
    She drank the reds and ambers and quite a bit of growing blues.
    It was difficult to know grey eyes could hold so many hues.

    Filled with all that she drank.
    Her heart stumbled to open. Bit by bit.
    Her fingers dug in the green grass. Clenched and then relaxed.
    And those crimson lips moved to sing.
    Songs of endings and beginnings pulsed, throbbed, and grew and grew.
    She sang of gentle rains, screaming storms, and sun-kissed dews.
    Of howling winds, redolent breezes, and kissing zephyrs.
    Of abashed touches, crimson kisses, and the scent of lavenders.
    But most of all she sang of happy wildflowers, strong camellias, and hopeful moonflowers.
    She was, is and always will.
    Remembered, rethought, revived.
    And always relived.
    Always relived.

    Free verse because this is just flew out of me and it felt right. Just like this
    #character #wod @miraquill @writersnetwork #miraquill #writersnetwork #ceesreposts #poetry #mrunaliniwrites

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    Lark song

    And those crimson lips moved to sing.
    Songs of endings and beginnings pulsed, throbbed, and grew and grew.
    (Full poem in the caption)

  • antarraal 9h

    She hides behind
    the gossamer veil of perfection,
    a beauty of impossible nature
    but to see it one needs the vision beyond love.

    She is shy but not timid,
    smart but not cunning,
    sometimes visits without any notice,
    and then disappears without even a goodbye.

    Her eyes sparkle with curiosity
    as if weighing our strength
    and wrinkles her nose with annoyance
    to see us losing our focus.

    A free spirit heart, a mind unforgiving
    tough to please with a penchant for giving
    on the road of honest diligence, she waits for us,
    for us who excel, as she is called Success.

    #character #roadc #wod @writersnetwark #ceesreposts

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    She is shy but not timid,
    smart but not cunning,
    sometimes visits without any notice,
    and then disappears
    without even a goodbye.


  • _solitaire_ 9h

    Whilst the carmine sun
    Dives into the blushing sea
    The blurry night with the dark winds
    Covers the vivid dreams of hope


  • smartsam 10h

    Brute Truth!

    When I was an adolescent
    I pondered in school!
    Meandered in library
    seeing sages buried in books!

    I just saw the pictures
    & nostalgic smell old books!
    Thanks God I never
    read many books!

    I wondered what this seeming sage sober.
    People are doing here?

    If books is all thing
    what most people doing
    else somewhere!

    Know I know
    facts of life brute!
    Folly full in joys & mirth
    while others searching truth!


  • queen_butterfly 10h

    @squared @anautumnleaf @_ashna_ Any mistakes?��

    Thank you so much WN for the repost��❤


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    ‌april turned into november with crisp and auburn leaves/ I sit on my couch and wait to feel something/ but it never comes/ eight months have passed and I can't remember how it feels to miss someone more than I miss myself/ whiskey hugs me to sleep on Saturday nights/ caffeine doesn't feel the same anymore/ and I drink it all day long/ then wonder why I'm staring at the spider webs in the corner of my sky high ceiling at 2 am/ anxiety eats away at me every moment/ I'm scared of people in a way I haven't been since I was fourteen/ eye contact is a thing of the past/ I keep my head down when I walk down the street/ how I get from point A to point B I am unsure/ I'm unsure of everything these days/ eight months is a long time to spend alone in one's mind/ this isn't a cry for help/ it's a cry for normalcy but I can't recall what that is/ or feels like/ I don't remember hugs/ smiling at people/ watching the sunset over the playground at football games/ cafes and the clicking of laptop keys/ panicked laughter in public situations/ my best friend and I at the food stalls eating momos/ normalcy is foreign/ so is feeling calm/ aloneness feels lonely


  • slc8716 18h

    Divine, Feathered Inspiration
                  Today started out a normal day. I went to the garage to check the washer. I wanted to see if the water was filling up because we have had trouble with it for a while. I sat a flashlight on it and watched the cycle. My wife was washing our bath rugs. She had them standing up on the wall. I giggled inside because I know how she thinks and know why her goofy self laid them in there like that. I paused the washer and opened the lid. I rearranged the bath rugs to where they laid down. I restarted the washer. My mind told me to go ahead and assume there is clothes in the dryer and to start with the lent. I checked and cleaned and was about to open the dryer door.
                  Instead, my eyes looked at the dryer sheet box and I noticed something on it. It looked like lent. I went to grab it and found it was a small light gray feather. It was just hanging there as if my angels were telling me something. I knew it was my angels because how else did it get there? We never open our garage door and we have never had any birds fly in our house. Our fur babies have not eaten a bird in longer than a year. I already know what others would think. I no longer care. I trust my angles over what anyone speaks.
    I picked it up and smiled so big. I got so excited that my arm jolted back and forth like, “Yes! I freaking love you all! Always coming through for me.” I was so excited I had to go tell my wife. While holding the feather, I walked to our bedroom where my wife was putting our clean clothes up. All I had to do was hold up the feather so she can see it. She is blind as a bat and even with contacts in her eyes she had to squint which made me laugh even more. She said, “What’s that?” “Oo, where you find that at?” I responded, “I found it just sitting there on the side of the dryer sheet box.” I then began saying, “Bay, let me find out that after I fixed the shower, that the washer is actually washing with cold water instead of hot.” She smiled and smirked with her duck lips and pointed at me as if she were saying, “MMhMM. That part.” Instead, she showed me body language.
    I gave duck lips back returning body language in agreement. I gave her the feather and asked her to put it with all the other feathers I have ever received from my angels that I keep in a bag. She got sidetracked while holding the feather in between her fingers. I have no idea how she was able to keep ahold. She is amazing in ways like that. She handed me our son and the feather because she had done forgot she was supposed to put it up for me. I feel every time I have her touch one, she is that much closer to being closer to her own angels.
    I walked up to my alter full of glass angels of different kinds. From adult to child and different colors. I have my Mr. Miyagi Plant on the left and my Sage bowl on the left full of Mother Natures treasures and any money that has a double digit on it. I opened the drawer where the pouch of feathers is stored. I looked at my son and taught him what it was for. He smiled and watched me put them back in the drawer.

  • anush18 21h

    I've been having some bad bad dreams,
    So I pull up the covers and hide to sleep.

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    I don't want to say Goodbye,
    But being the one who leaves,
    Without leaving a word, I have to.
    The sunshine is here, but I can't feel it,
    There is a way but there is nothing to get.
    Why? I'm losing my mind. Do you listen? Hey?
    What did I just say? Did I say something related to Goodbyes? Oh, this unconscious person. Oh wait, I'm draining, wait. But I won't be back. Don't think.

  • anush18 1d

    लाइट कैचर

    You've put these holes in my heart
    I knew it right from the start
    That you would leave me some scars
    These I've been tryna fix.
    ~withered flower!

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    buried in your
    grave and
    You're still breathing
    inside me.

  • rimi_ojha 1d

    There were days, when I was depressed, as the obstacles standing between me and my happiness were only some 'sensible' people.

    There were days, when I wove the threads of hope in my steps and they never hesitated to make holes in it.

    There were days, when I lost myself.. gave up everything I loved, to please them
    but still was in vain.

    And that was when, I realised I can never be the' one 'whom they wanted .

    So , into the dance , I went again to lose my mind and find my soul.

    I bloomed like a lotus, again when it rained& petrichor changed the air I breathed.
    Made my soul vivacious and ebullient
    And let the zephyr flirting with my loose hair.

    Tightened my ghunghru up.
    Believed in every breath I breathed.
    And instead of just moving ahead
    I danced gracefully with ease.

    ( Representing The famous bharatnatyam dancer Rukmini Devi Arundale)

    @writersnetwork @miraquill #art #wod #ceesreposts @the_muted_voice @shobana_suresh

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    If you don't do what you love .
    Then how is the world supposed to know that you exist?

  • poetrypastel_ 1d

    Elegies are stitched
    On my heart
    I'm bleeding grief
    Waiting for the stranger
    Who promised me 
    Ballads in white
    Of love and hope

  • saraameeraali_ 1d

    every story has an end
    after an end, there is always a new start
    some have a bitter beginning and a sweet ending,
    some have a sweet beginning and bitter ending,
    cuz a story is full of emotions and feelings
    its fate to have a bitter start or bitter ending, either its a love story, friendship story, or any story,
    we can't just escape that bitterness,
    so accept it.

  • the_muted_voice 1d

    @writersnetwork @mirakee
    #life_of_lovebirds #life_of_sweethearts #wod #pod #ceesreposts

    //The Abandoned Art//

    ~Sealed Snapshots~

    She unclogged the lens and fondled with the discoid shutters. Brushing the layers of primitive filth above the Glassy display, she leisurely pressed the diminutive power button on the top right corner. She cruised across incarcerated decrepit captures, with stockpiled consignments of repentant tears.

    ~Prehistoric portraits~

    Zooming into the pixilated snaps of defective art that she bewitched, now remained immobile and void of passionate hosanna oscillations. Casting her mind back to the whole new ball game of surviving in the paradise of criticism, with her undiluted art, seemed like slaughtering her untrimmed purity.

    ~Illusive Images~

    Unhurriedly rolling the zoom ring, she returned from perfect position of pretexts. Her hallucinatory fancies of photography ever again in life, brooded over her. Haunted with tranquilizing sounds of her captured clicks, She packaged it with the Piece of newspaper that read, “ Best photography of 2000 by Wilma was forged unfortunately”


    (Sometimes, when you are held for someone else's faulty responsibility, it eventually takes away your responsibility too because its CONTAGIOUS. )

    @rimi_ojha - I tried ://

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  • shruti_25904 1d

    #art @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersnetwark @writersbay #ceesreposts

    Today, me conversing with you is a person who has sacrificed its talent of art, basically painting. So here presenting before you my sad story...

    Once there was a child, who loved painting. At the age of 5, he joined a renowned art academy to excel his skills. He was equally good in studies. Day by day, his skills were improving. He won many prizes of painting and was suggested by his mates to make his career in painting. He was very happy. His parents were proud of him. As he grew up, he participated in many national and international painting competitions and defeated many renowned artists all over the world. When he presented his wish of making a career in painting before his parents, they denied. He tried his level best to make them agree, but all in vain. His relatives demotivated him by telling... Painting is not a job to be pursued, its just a hobby. Painting is a commercial one, you would develop greed to earn more and more money and would spoil yourself. You would have no fame and if u do so, your parents fame will feel ashamed and they will have no fame. Our society opposes hobbies in form of job and much more. He was dipped into a huge dilemma to choose between his talent and parent's fame. He asked some of his trusted friends, they suggested him not to strike hammer in his feet and to choose his parent's fame. He was so pressurized that he was bound to choose parent's fame and with a heavy heart, he sacrificed his own skill, talent and dream of pursuing painting as a job.

    This was a short story which lights the fact that even today we are modern just by saying, we are unable to accept modernism. We are killing many new talents and skills by our hands itself, and becoming a barrier in their paths to flourish their skills.

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    Art is a form of speech, let it flourish.(See caption...)

  • shruti_25904 1d

    Swinging to and
    Fro the branches of my poetry...
    Inked with verses of meta-
    -phors. Sitting beneath
    The tree, I
    Keep on ponde-
    Ring... In a deep
    Dilemma. Sud-
    -Denly, a piece of
    Ice fell on me, which
    Brought in me a new
    Sense of life. I felt and
    Let out a deep sigh of

    #wov7 @writersbay @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersnetwark #ceesreposts

    Inspired from the poem "Dust of snow" by Robert Frost ������
    Never underestimate the tiniest bit of your life. Even a small pinch of dust can irritate your eyes.
    (Tried to create the shape of tree, but not perfect ������)

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    A piece of ice changed my life...(See caption...)

  • anush18 3d

    If there was a parallel universe,
    One had me with
    my absolute happiness
    And one had the void
    with my absolute sadness
    immersed in it.

  • anush18 4d

    Paper planes and lost paths,
    I grew up feeding a cosmos
    inside me.

  • anush18 4d

    //�� �������� �������������� ������ ������������,
    �� ������ ���� ������������ ������������,
    ������ �� ������������ ���� �������� ����������

    It's dark here and I don't care for anyone, at all.
    I've left the chains behind, and now I am freed.
    All the pain ended, I didn't hope, not even trust god.
    But a power, who helps me heal and feel.
    I've prayed to the power for my mother's recovery,
    For my future and life, for my birthdays and for my friends success, for my family and for everyone who was and is still close to me. I feel horrible, horrible because being happy is so rare and it demands a reason, always. And that's the part I hate. I don't love or hate. I exist for kindness, I exist for loneliness, maybe, there are some who misunderstood, but today I feel happy. I feel happy to see the flow.

    I danced after ages, on this dark night, I don't feel that thorn in my throat anymore which used to shake my soul inside and out. I am for the end and the beginning, I am someone hard to understand and realise. I love dancing on clouds, but I don't fear of falling.

    I was lost on a wave, there was no one to save.
    But then that mug of coffee and that friend, my inner self, my solitude, that has helped me end this wrecked and abandoned body.

    //�������������������� ���� �������� ���� �������������������� ����, ��������, ����'�� ������ ���� ������, ����'�� �� ����������//

    //रास्तों से मेरी गहरी मेरी यारी हो गयी जो फ़र्ज़ से भरा था बस्ता वो भी खाली हो गया, बुरा है ज़माना, तू चल डगर ना कर अगर मगर, सफ़र, कैसा है ये सफ़र मंजिलों की ना है कोई खबर सफ़र.. कैसा है ये सफ़र मंजिलों की ना है कोई खबर//

    We have read hopenotes, found friends in need, found solace when needed, found everything to calm us down, but this body always listens to this soul inside you, keep going, keep rocking.

    ©anush, a flower seeking beauty even when withered.


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    I keep rocking the floors,
    A mug of coffee, brewed,
    And A Friend to talk about