When the sun falls in another tangerine glass and moon bestow ivory to the sky, I wonder how many existences and mortal souls has poetry kept alive and bonafide.
Do words flow like winds and blow life to moribund? Or do they keep giving birth to lines that bloom into a poetry, whose ending is yet to grow but carry spirits that were left to be rotten.
Are words enough to shelter fading hearts into poems rather than burying them in graveyards? Or are they a mere voice of broken hut mourning for the lost wave of hope that curled across the resting sea last time, when grief was spilled from the pen of a bard.
When the sun settles back to the margin of blue sky and moon slips down to slumber, I still wonder how many lives has poetry kept alive, and how many emotions has poetry abandoned to be rusted and drowned in loveliest demise. ~Purva
tnr1046I heard that... Geathered feathers... Ruffed up but it's the lamp shade back on the lamp stand... Just noticing now.. slowly but Shirley shores my lessly lies stays in true by leavings of leaves not needing to be leavened steadfastly... For all her-it-ted..
shrey2310Here I'll complete my century. Tho I don't have anything to speak on this. I mean, i loved it. Also that I've to make a century here of comments. I'm sure WN has a crush on you and mirakee loves you *jokes apart, this deserved it. Had a well balanced composition. Vocabs and stuff well maintained. *
My breaths weighed heavy on last Thursday, as if the sun crowned my exhausted chest with few rotten daisies of somnolence and anxiety, it was Jane Austen's novel in my hands but my eyes were more evident to the last kiss of two departing sparrows which I couldn't fathom till eternity.
And as I hoarded the first whip of air rushing towards my cheeks, the roses in my hands pressed over the embroidered covering and the air smelled of sweat more than smog from chimneys, for a moment it felt like clouds are walking beside me and skies are heaped with greys, rainbows are trespassers and humans are too fragile on diverged lanes.
My ribs sighed in less suffo- cation as each gaze was led out of my eyes, and emptiness chose to curl up my hairs within, narrow roads and long-brakes has taken me aback to few lost memories and withered wounds which bloomed on my skin last spring.
Uncertainties swallowed the day and the bruises hidden under the petals of my skin transpired like the bounty of nature, sailing from one bus to another I was headed up by my dreams in this journey because some days you are more vulnerable. ~Purva
@miraquill Thank you so much for improvising me on each step and blooming this heartsease, without your support I've been nothing. Tenth Pod and I'm extremely happy ❤️
@writersnetwork I've been always grateful to the wonderful support you gave me ❤️
. I drape ciphers of life with confetti whenever manuscripts ask me about the fragments of my existence, I drape nightmares with reality and epiphanies with silence, when my dreams guard the shores of algorithm.
I drape pew galaxies with synergy and unity with cosmopolitan, I drape smoke of cigars with trailing winds and rage of mariners with rippling moribund.
I drape skies of rivalries with meteors of diverse nuance, I drape boulevards of poetries with vagabond thoughts and streetlights of imaginations.
I drape hope around twice blooming home of same breed with no more divergence, I drape faith around smiles whose curves are bleakly evanescent, and some days I forget to drape myself with the connotation of who I am?
I used to draw my dreams on sand from childhood because I lived in a city where skies escaped from shores and time, well it emerged out from some archaic hourglass; and my existence would walk up to miles or keep on floating within cherry blossoms before this chapter of life ends either with an epilogue or a full stop.
I vaguely remember the days on which my petals coordinated with my roots for the first time to put up some nursery alphabets together before it collapsed to paint the forbidden sky blue at sunrise and saffron at sunsets, but I clearly remember how I painted whole canvas dark red after my first heartbreak with crayons of broken edges.
And every time my heart struck open and leaked rainbow, I would gaze at sky with tearful eyes and the sky would smile back at me, for I was the child of winds which swept in thoroughly. Maybe I've wrote millions of poems altogether about spending late summer nights with heartbroken stars same as me while craving to hear croons of moon. I've unleashed my scars and drawn flaws out of my soul, I've carried broken abstracts in my arms and blown allegories through my humming trunk, I've shared my secrets with dahlias and daisies and wrapped forevers amidst unheard memories. And I wish to praise the last tick of clock or turn back the pages of calender once, before the upcoming autumn builds a graveyard and write an eulogy to my last breathe. ~heartsease
@mirakee thank you so much for improving me each day, I'll consider this as my Birthday gift ❤️❤️❤️ seventh pod I'm honoured
Who am I?
I'm an unfilial vagabond with hungry heart and roaming soul seeking its unquenched shelter under the roof of poetries, I'm the fathomable womb of my own hope, joy and sorrow treasuring etiquettes word by word to nourish my hidden dictionaries.
I'm the harvested remnant of autumn plucking smiles from my face to bloom into clover of womanhood and shred this lethargic skin of teenage girl blood by blood, I'm a reclusive manual caressing my mother's smile and cocooning sweat drops from my father's forehead making their sleepless nights less vulnerable.
I'm the hidden constellation of metaphors adjoining to form a galaxy of deifying poems and showering meteors of hard work on empty streets of perseverance, I'm an ushering storm waiting for a shoreline to escort the tripping waves of my allegories, or a mariner to sail it's boat along the thunders of my existence till we reach beyond the sunset of memories.
I'm the rush of wind travelling in each direction, to every corner of world till one day life blows me to the sky, I'm the faded smile of past, a beating heart of someone's present, and a liberating soul presuming future.
I'm the traversing galaxy tracing my uncertain existence on the paths of certain rivalries, I'm a mere human who is unaware of upcoming tomorrow's but still dream of eternities. ~Purva
To people who have cherished my heart and nourished my soul forever, who have accepted me the way I am, who stood with me when days were bleak and dark, I'm very thankful to each of them ❤️ Mirakee you played with me, I'll thank everyone tomorrow still #gratitude#hs_pod#whoamic
I explore the shores barefoot whenever hurricane recedes back, for I'm no more afraid of drowning or tossing in the winds raging high, but I fear of the breezes oozing out from smoke of cigar trying to make me breathless with every sigh.
I dwell in galaxies as a vagabond and trace constellations of reveries, for falling in black hole no more frightens me nor does falling asleep forever, but I'm afraid of walking on empty streets where meteors fail to shower luminance and unheard screams and vague tales are buried under streetlights of darkness for ever.
I outlive transpirations of life and decipher meaning out of epiphanies, for death no more scares me instead it stuns my lost spirit, but I'm afraid of living everyday with a fear of dying someday, for each pessimistic thought is another graveyard on my way.
Demons sheltering within my brains flaunt a tent of cobwebs, and what I do is feed them poetries for I'm not afraid of devils hallucinating, but I'm afraid of those nightmares which eat my heartbreaks and solace served on the maple leaf of eulogies.
After swotting nursery rhymes I sailed my boat over the waves of numbers for I'm not afraid of standing on shorelines guarding the shores of algorithms, but I'm afraid of nightmares which spill reality into fractions, where gender is the divergence and justice is bleakly evanescent. ~Purva
Two Pods in a week am I dreaming? This is miracle❤️ Thanks to every beautiful soul who read this genuinely :)
A poem should be little remains of human thoughts, saved each minute, every hour, filled with spilling knowledge relinquished by the mariners, when thunder and sunshine are oppressed in a raging storm sprinkling charm to the stories, tales or anecdotes prior.
A poem should be as fathomable as the womb of mother treasuring the remnants of alphabets, a blend of idioms and phrases acting like a shield to protect from the corrosion of plagiarism when dug by a frolic reader.
A poem should be a vast sky of imaginations enlightened by constellations of rivalries, which when splashed on a poetic canvas gives birth to a book, where free hearts comply to darn a universe of memories and untwine synonyms which fence the galaxies crooked.
A poem should be a chronicle or a manuscript deciphering its existence out of crosswords, it should be a soul of human heart and a swollen tumblr of emotions, which once been held by hands shall illuminate one's mind and trace voice which is left unheard. ~Purva
virtually_realI'm soooo happy for you. 2 pods in a week is a dream come true and I can't be more happy than you getting this ❤️❤️ and there are many more dreams waiting my dear Sylvia Plath! One day you'll be far greater than all writers the world reveres so much
ckfilvanThis poem is too high, too lofty for me. Wonderful, classic and stunning
What good is a day to me, when smitten chapters basking in a sprawling evening within me are covered with multilayered dust, and the blank spaces are filled with grime rather than affection of some indigenous hands and a yellow bookmark at crust.
What good is a day to me when my edges breathe through oxygenated masks of cob webs, and the epilogue on my backyard is succumbed to wrap into thick rust, where rivalries, stories and vulnerability of women are choked in silence losing its forbearance as a shooting star being fallen within the doors of outburst.
What good is a day to me when wisdom within my lining sky isn't showered through meteors of poetic verses and abstracts since the day an author gave me birth, closet being the only companion from exchanging opinions to teaching values and deciphering meanings out of self worth.
What good is a day to me when my existence of being a book was an uncertainty forever of blooming into the hearts of reader, but I won't shred tears of melancholy for I believe in the only certainty of my verses dwelling and resonating within every teenager.
What good is a day to me when an insentient object waits for someone to read it and appraise its unheard tales, where hopes are futile, demeanour is diminishing, black ink is smouldering, yet confidence and belief inside me wants to run on tracks of eternity till next dawn felicitate good days, till next dawn felicitate good days. ~bruisingpen
Prompt: POV of a book which hasn't been read by anyone for a long time and has been kept in a closet almost forever.
My 2nd Pod I'm extremely happy... Thank you so much @mirakee and all beautiful souls who read this❤️(alphabets are lucky for me) _________________________________________ Appraisals, arise and awake to appreciate apostrophes which belongs to beguiling sky of brewing bruises.
Confidence, comprises canister of coruscant commands to delineate dilemmas of one's heart and mind.
Eternity, elaborates essence of forevers, the forbidden forevers fabricated to be forgotten.
Gratitude, graceful greeting for the gallant efforts which are put in hibernating hopes of heartbroken home.
Imperfections, irreplaceable inheritance which (in)complete(s) me with juvenescent joy justifying my self worth.
Kaleidoscope: knits, kindles and erase distance between longing souls and love liberates longings to luminate life with serenity.
Meditation: mastering my morales with discipline and concentration where nestling nostalgia nullify and present joy invades me.
Optimism overflows from the opulent outline of beliefs where one Practices principles of preaching persistence.
Quintessence: quipping quality of reflecting (im)perfections, where Renaissance revive to reconcile reverberation of last birth, and Sanguine sunsets hold saffron sky To teach time the value of itself by the hands of treasured tomorrows, and Ushering universe utters the epilogue written by the last breathe of today.
Voracious vehemences welcomes wisdom by following xper Xena's.
Youth yearn for bright future and you yourself are the pride, zestful zephyr of enthusiasm blows within you to exemplify life for the zillionth time.