1311 posts
  • hash_05 3w

    ......तुम और तुम्हारी आंखे.....

    सुनो तुमको पता भी है!

    चेहरे पर ये तुम्हारी जुल्फों के
    पीछे से तुम्हारी आंखे कुछ झांक रही है,
    न! प्यार नहीं हुआ हमको उनसे
    बस लगा चांद सा प्रतिबंध है उनमें,
    हां! सुना है हमने भी बहुत दीवाने है
    तुम्हारी इन आंखो के..
    खेर शहर तुम्हारा है, अफसाने बहुत ही होंगे..
    शहर अलग है मेरा भी तुमसे,
    तेरी तस्वीर देख कर बदला है रंग मेरे भी गालो का..
    लो अब तुम इश्क़ का नाम मत देने लगना....
    कुछ रिश्ते सुना है बेनाम ही अच्छे लगते है.
    शायद ज्यादा खूबसूरत होगी वो रात भी
    जब तूने इन आंखो के आसमना में निहारा होगा ..
    तारीफे हम भी कर दे तुम्हारी..
    पर आज फिर तुमको इश्क़ होने का डर सताने लगेगा,
    हां मान लिया हमने भी, थोड़ा डरते हो तुम भी
    रिश्ते निभाने में कच्चे हो तुम भी,
    पर शाम को चाय पर आना, बतांगे हम भी
    मुकम्मल कहानियों के बारे में...
    और जरा जुल्फे खुली ही रखना अपनी...
    उनके पीछे छुपी आंखे ढूंढती है किसी को शायद आज भी......✍️

  • sanguinstic_soul_bimmy 3w

    Hey you ,yes you ,the person exactly in front of me in mirror . Aren't you supposed to be genuine to me .
    Stop faking jollity because i am aware that you are not alright.I discern that you could reflect my illusion but dwindled in plucking emotions.
    Hey listen, just be fervent and do consider that "Nothing is immortal this ball game shall pass too".

  • wtf_ankrit 3w


    Dear girls ,
    Texting boys first will make your skin glow. Do it now!


  • asnowdrop 3w

    A Day Of Life

    A day of life that makes a life full of smile memories and flower to be like, they are everlasting which never leaves its smell
    and glow even its season had gone, which reminds me of being a day with you which make my life smell full of love and glow, my charm taken from your love to be like brighten like a firefly in dim light even in a darkness of Scarry night it dim itself with its own light.

  • fizahfiz_ 3w


    Our bond,
    Your love for me is forever long-lasting,
    But I couldn't reach your love level.

    My words;
    like daily journal
    Through mouths and in heart,
    You know,
    Reaching You anytime,
    like free wireless connection,
    Ask for anything, state for anything,
    You gave what I need instead of want,
    Without expecting a reply from me,
    Zero cost,
    My gratitude is just enough for You,
    And being a loyal humble servant for You.


  • lonesome_artist 3w

    This is according to my experiences since the beginning of the gradual change of man and time since the pandemic.
    #wod #journal #writersnetwork #miraquill @Miraquill @writersnetwork

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    The pandemic [COVID-19] has a major impact on lifestyle. We all struggle with the situation, but learning or learning should not be ignored. Young people's right to education. There is a saying, "The youth are the hope of the people". So I believe that no matter how difficult our situation is, there are many ways to address the education of young people. The important thing is that a year is not wasted in the lives of students. To overcome this we need to work together. As parents, we have a great responsibility to do well and succeed in our children's education
    It is important to continue education in the midst of a pandemic because as a student with a great appreciation for education, I view it as a step towards improving our lifestyle. Pandemic is not enough reason to stop our learning Education is everyone's responsibility-not just students, teachers, and parents but a community that is willing to support and guide the dream of a child who aspires to be able to learn . It can always be said that the problems of education in our country are complex. However, if we continue to work together and be united in one cause, it is unlikely that the bright future we hope for the child and for the people will be ours even in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic.


  • devilfish 3w

    Mother Earth

    Her breath into our sands
    Those are the hands that we were birthed but I'm here to say we didn't
    Put those hands first
    Her sands like a womb would merge and mix and work
    Like wolves we have consumed our lives out of their own worth
    If nothing is going to be anymore
    What does it matter what came first?

    History struggling to find the answer sifting through the shifting dirt

    Now that her screams are stifled by the wealth of a select few
    We watch our lives fall through
    Mother Earth is wounded and she bleeds my name

    And her pain can't be silenced by the cradled children
    An empty open wound we can fit our generation in
    We're linked like chains
    Our pain is nothing to that of our continent of greed and unowned Shame our days are exposed like wounds

    Fibrous tissue like wires rotten to their waste and returned on the trays they were made and brought to eat like an Independence Day cake
    So happily asleep
    While fate was angrily awake
    Watching our own future and their future run down our cheeks confused
    And equally afraid


  • ericajean 3w

    #journal #wod

    Their claim to fame: “We’re your neighborhood store”
    And it’s true as I stroll in on a Monday morning,
    The floors gleam as the vegetables shine like bubbles of rainbows
    Gluten-free, organic, tofu, oranges, and plums
    Blackberries, blueberries, cantaloupe, and humus
    Share a shelf and look on quietly as we predators
    Saturate the floor slowly, as zombies ready to pluck them out

    A young woman in a pale blue scarf, her eyes are drawn low,
    circles of crescent moons hang from her lids as she yawn
    and grab a banana or two;
    She bags an orange and then she stares at the Gluten-Free section,
    For a second or three--before stepping away and checking her wallet

    The prices are scarier than Covid it seems
    The masked stockers look our way and one waves
    “Hey good people! Nice to see yall!”
    We worked with him before, I can’t see his smile
    Any more, blocked by Pandemic and Cloth-like

    The store gets chillier in the back
    The back where the meats
    Are held hostage and the mussels, crab, and
    Lobster lay in cemeteries awaiting their final destinations
    I’m sleepy, too tired to pick through them
    The line is a winding snake
    Thick and at a stand-still

    It is Monday and we’re at the neighborhood store
    Where the fruits are organic rainbows
    And the prices are of the devil

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    The Neighborhood Market

    we predators
    Saturate the floor slowly, as zombies ready to pluck them out

  • ringnyu 3w

    Route 403

    Got on the train
    Crowded it looked
    Suffocating it felt
    On a cold winter morning
    Squeezed from all corners
    Here we were on our way to school.

    We were all dressed in jackets
    Boots, gloves and hats
    All, the young, the old, the good, the bad and the ugly.
    The old sitting and the young standing
    The old nodding to sleep in all directions
    The young struggling to tap their fingers away

    While others are tuned into their different worlds
    Worlds of thought, music and observation.
    Here we were heading off to different destinations
    On route 403

  • jikimi 3w

    #journal #wod @miraquill @writersnetwork

    Challenge accepted ♡♡

    What I did realise is a moon alive in my heart ♡

    Hope you will like it♡♡

    Ty for editors choice ♡♡ I adore you writersnetwork

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    ~15th February, 2021~
    Visiting coves of darkness

    While visiting either tenebrositical
    Or luminescent caves, I only detected
    The unusual presence of the moon
    Accompanying me in my mind via heart.


    The only thing I observed in all my career
    As a spelunker is that a sparkling hopeful
    moon directs me through gloom and chill in those hard walled Caves, roaming unsensed
    of the danger lying Ahead.


    If you have a chandelier of moon in your heart
    Caves are nothing.


    That gave me a hope of being a spelunker


  • amsterdam 3w

    In my dreams, I cut the silence of the wind
    and it bleeds crimson longing for the things
    that I miss. It weeps for me like someone who knows how it feels like when snowflakes of the past softly fall on my cheeks, and frostbites sit on my pale lips when the secret door to my closet of bottled memories is slightly ajar and yesterday peeks through the gap with sad eyes that bore a hole in my chest, setting free a river that makes my soul ache.
    I miss the things that used to warm my heart in such a familiar way. How I used to play with my 3 o'clock shadow when I'm outdoors having fun and at night when the moon is out serenading the stars, while I watch from the rooftop on lovely, summer evenings. I fondly remember my childhood friends whom I used to share with sweet treats, dreams, petty fights, and only God knows what else.
    I miss how mom kisses the pain away from knee scrapes that never seem to heal. I used to think that maybe she got magic on her lips that I haven't seen. I miss how the waves kiss my dainty feet. I miss walking in the rain. I miss eating cotton candies that tasted like spring.
    I miss the serene sunsets l shared with you.
    I miss you. I miss us.
    I miss a lot of things.
    And the way we were.

    @writersnetwork thank you. ��

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    Dear Diary

  • saheyiduad 3w

    Again I got the forced smile
    from my Ammi when I tell her
    about my dreams to fly
    in the sky that so not made for wings,
    as I stretched my hand
    and fly in her kitchen.
    Again I got the fake excitement
    from my Abba that sat in gloomy future
    when I drifted into his arm
    with my hands still stretched
    clinging to his torned jhabba
    in not so pleasant living room of our home
    Again I got the faux promising eyes
    from my Amma when I show her my sparkling eyes
    my dreams to fly to promising future
    for living a normal life
    away from harsh voices
    into warm hugs
    away from forcing
    into acceptance
    away from teary gloomy eyes
    into cherished smiles
    And with forehead kiss
    I went into the beauty sleep
    And with this ends the journal for today with promising future.
    . .............
    Ammi- Mother
    Abba - Father
    Amma - Grandma
    Jhabba - Long shirt
    Living a normal life is his desiring dream
    Flying here means to run away from the chaotic war.
    The journal of his home.


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    A sleeping boy in the war
    with gun shots as his lullaby
    And so called distorted house
    which he called his home.

  • kasishakespeare 3w


    Sitting at the beachfront cafe
    Waiting and hoping to see
    Lovely couples holding hands together at the beachsand
    Ladies catching a breeze in their
    Summer dresses
    Showing their vibrancy in the sunshine
    And surfers getting their boards
    Ready to catch a wave
    But that moment as the dark clouds
    Steals away the sunshine
    I saw multitudes of people
    Putting sackcloth on the heads
    Sombre filled on their faces
    They were left in despair
    And all mourned for the Sunshine
    That is gone


  • kasishakespeare 3w


    Sitting at the beachfront cafe waiting and hoping to see
    Lovely couples holding hands together at the beachsand
    Ladies catching a breeze in their summer dresses
    Showing their vibrancy in the sunshine
    And surfers getting their boards ready to catch a wave
    But that moment as the dark clouds
    Steals away the sunshine
    I saw multitudes of people
    Putting sackcloth on the heads
    Sombre filled on their faces they were left in despair
    And all mourned for the Sunshine that is gone

  • solivagant_soul 3w

    Just consider this moment as a 14th February valentine's day while reading it. ��Couldn't think of anything else than this��

    Thank you so much @writersnetwork ��❤️ for the repost.
    I had to check twice, couldn't believe my eyes.
    I am literally squeaking in joy.��

    #journal #wod #writersnetwork
    @writersnetwork @miraquill

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    ~14 February, 2021~

    { 50% Discount- Valentine's day special }

    I tramp inside the cafe, decorated
    With confetti and pink balloons paired
    With pristine white ones.
    The aroma of roasted coffee beans
    entices the smothered hiraeth,
    Spritzing the caff steering
    transpicious Kalopsia.
    A lone man in his 70s lounges on
    the window seat inhaling 78 winters
    fused with pink valentine days.
    And he gestures the barista to place
    The fragile Auburn cups of
    cappuccino gently on the table,
    The gelid wooden chair before him
    sans of his late wife's presence,
    Contemplates the presence of the
    two cups on the table,
    And espies his constrained smile
    that camouflage the abiding stygian abyss
    in the chambers of his decreipt heart,
    Which once were meadows and home to
    umpteen magenta sainfoins
    and lilac Lupines.
    Today devoid of anyone to look after.

    A sneaky tenant Zephyr lock horns
    with the Caffeine aroma of the proprietor.
    And Conquers a major expanse as
    the aroma evanescent through the Window, defeated
    A poignant lassie dressed in a
    plaid pinafore suspires blue Sonnets,
    Her gaze recconoitring every corner
    of the room steering clear of
    her lover next to her .
    And soon enough, the connotation
    of love unveils its clashes
    with aligned doldrums.
    When her mere choice of fancying
    black coffee over latte,
    Had her inamorato berate,
    thus purloining the curiousity
    of the unpledged barista.
    Dressed in grey metaphors,
    some colorful confetti Clung onto
    the collar of his shirt.
    The inaudible colloquy tinged him
    green with envy,
    Trailed by a pandemonium when
    he ruined the seventh cup
    of overspilled latte art.

    Knitting sombre Elegies into pastel Shades of utopian Sonnets, the elder man smiled gazing at his wife's photograph adoring every wrinkle on her pale skin.

    And I a poet, seated at the last corner,
    Brewed their longings and Regrets
    and poured them into my journal.
    While tasting the irony of the
    announcement on the café slate.

    " Valentine's day Special "
    Young couples are warmly
    W E L C O M E D

    "True Love isn't like coffee that
    cools down with time,
    It's like fine wine that grows
    better as each year pass"

  • _broken_mirror_ 3w

    Time passes,even when it seems impossible.
    Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise,it passes unevenly,in strange lurches and dragging lulls,but pass it does.

  • smile_its_sunnah 3w


    It was a friday afternoon, I was ironically sitting in-between the dimension of romance and horror which humorously contradicts my current mood of annoyance. It seemed like a usual and boring day but honestly it was far from what meets the eye. The stereotypical stoic librarian remains staring into her space of silence as the last minute assignment readers hush their grunts of disapproval.

    The rarity of having people of different title, character and personality is quiet endearing when you think of it, the study buddies, drama fanatics, sports crazies and weirdos (which would be me) all come to one place to gain knowledge. If you really think of it, a library is like a place of acceptance. A place where history, culture, religion and realisation become equivalently ranked.

    #journal #pod #wod #writersnetwork #miraquill
    @miraquill @writersnetwork

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    Knowledge is surely an
    exceptional success
    of any person.

  • thesunshineloves 3w

    Mizuki ²⁴.⅞.²∅²¹

    (yeah I begin, writing giving the day a name.)

    didn't the second change? the past second still had me sobbing, now I'm smiling that seems very unusual of me. may the next second bring some flowers and the next some tea and next some rain. when would be there a second where I meet you, may a minute last an hour as I see you. was there a day without thinking about you? a next second breaks my dreams and just comes through.

    an hour ago books gathered around me, 30 mins ago, some flowers were around me, a month ago you left but why did I mess up? the count of seconds seem to years just to me. every minute is fine but when you give me some time, I play in the clouds and wander under skies, I see fish in night sky as stars swim in brook. stardust like pollen and flowers are all woolen, like spring wool and snowflowers. books caught in fire seem to light up the world, characters jump out with the fire breaking in, food recipes get out prepared as my last meal, your time seems to be effective on me, I might as well see forward for how many hours you gift me.

    now it's the moon time,. ballet with stars lasts in sky as the sun is unaware of this party. I boast to being like the child I am , na-bi from the east coast, wabi sabi in my chores, delighted the restaurant, I dine with some old. plateau of sea roar, drenched in with sweet shore, roasted garlic and cloves hidden in the small porcelain box, like from my grandmas hidden closet hide my dolls in a bag. I prepare a sweet write and sleep like it's the day. while the tears follow my eyes and drown me in the medley lane.



  • queen_butterfly 3w

    #imor(8) #hyperbole #journal


    Thank you for the read @/writersbay��
    Thank you for the heart WN❤️

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    april seems to be made of bone. I make my bed at noon and cry into dawn. I hit backspace too many times and stumble on familiar key spaces. My pasteurised feelings taste of nostalgia. I peel off my nail polish and sweep the floor. I shrivel into a tiny space when my back is bent. I write letters to send after I die. I'm afraid. My love has glass knuckles. I taste all things tangible and touch those that are not. I'm afraid, the wind tastes like basil and mint. I throw a party for my knife in my bathtub. I dip my head underwater and try to pretend I'm not here. Tomorrow I'll do my laundry. one day I'll have to send those letters out. I'm afraid.


    may stains like spilt blood. A scent of hunger lingers in the air, its jaw flexed for a bitter bite mark. You taste of regret and nonchalant sorrow. I flinch and tilt my head to the other side, where the water twists into a soft noose. Fantastical figures wander my mind when I'm asleep. Agony hunts my trail like the bloodhound it is. In the end it is still you. A buzz of silence pulls me into an embrace with your warmth. I am safe here. My feet can hardly touch the abyss with its teeth grazing against my soles. Night terrors and morning mirrors. I go back to sleep.


    june aches through a lavender bruise. Faded like a mistaken birthmark. A raw pain pressed into my bones engraved onto stone. Opals and quartz that I hoard on my night stand. To my right hand side where you were a week ago the scent of honey lingers. I try to breathe in each and every atom you left behind. A constellation of mistakes mark my body, inhabited by new skin that hasn't ever felt you. I shed myself like a snake, pulling with firm fingers. I peel all the scabs that healed in grit and melancholy. What emerges is a ghost of myself, each time softer and more afraid. I scream into june.


    july eats away at me like rust on an iron bar. Tonight I drown in the spell you cast, where my vision is blank and white. Your voice in my ear is near then far, consumed in undulating waves and oscillating tides. Grief devours a part of me like rotting fruit, softer than usual and sweeter than soot. I drift into sleep too many times and I see your face by my side, nightmarishly quiet. And the echoes of your warmth ripple against my flesh like a bitten peach. A soft reminder of devoted possession where you are still out of reach, I lose an insurmountable riot.


  • poetrycity 13w

    ~Autobiography of a diary~
    neither I'm a bunch of writings,
    nor a place for ink,
    but I'm a hidden theory of a great philosopher,
    a sentimental experience for someone,
    who always prefers to be alone,
    I'm that piece of heart that dwells in lover's eyes.
    lives on a table,beside a fine bundle of books,
    where sunrays softly withers my half torned apart pages
    written in the remembrance for someone's remains
    but the shadow of kind man's head protects me.
    Neither I'm a stuff,
    nor a place for old dried odourless dead lilies
    But I'm a medium of attachment for a wanderer with his darkness.