9 posts
  • sayuriii 26w

    There's huge respect and gratitude for the farmers in this country, but they are the ones suffering miserably. Poverty is one thing, hopelessness is another.

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    Cross the boundaries of skycraper lands,
    and step your feet on warm mud.
    Do you hear zephyr,
    cutting through paddy fields,
    carrying monsoon odour,
    to the dry lands?
    Gaze slowly,
    into the open green fields,
    watch the scorching sun,
    and the hardworking men.
    Pale are their faces,
    in the bright summer noon,
    stale are their lunches,
    but hunger, a curse.
    Look beyond,
    their smiling faces,
    where stubborn children cry,
    for candies and joy.
    Poverty is inherited,
    like their hand me downs,
    and inherited,
    are their humble souls.
    Look at your plate,
    full of their dreams,
    your gourmet taste pallet,
    their starving screams.
    There are melting horizons,
    in the countryside,
    with empty stomached corpses,
    and vile consequences.
    Don't count in currencies,
    count in bits of food,
    count in teardrops,
    and count in lost tokens of hope.

  • sayuriii 27w

    Why's Miraquill so slow these days? '_'

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    maybe we grew up too fast,
    stumbling on uneven slides,
    and biased seasaws.
    Amidst crimson bruised knees,
    and star tinted orbs,
    we aged too fast,
    in life's cage,
    with nonchalant ebbulience.
    We were mere dreamers,
    with stardust souls,
    and hearts of gold,
    hallucinating to be paragons,
    rushing fast, past cotton candy stalls,
    slow dancing beneath sangrine clouds.
    Tryst of teenage and tragedy,
    we weeped on diamond tears,
    tucking fake smiles,
    with a bunch of dried flowers,
    in the front pocket,
    of our striped shirts,
    gulping pain, for later years.
    Dreams, a haze,
    of unfinished puzzle memories,
    kites collapsing, into hurricane eyes.
    Freedom kissed,
    the imprisoned soul child,
    oh! curfew days were longer,
    than these drunk nights!
    What do you search for,
    in this nadir of bliss,
    with dull eyes,
    the scintilla of innocence?

  • sayuriii 30w

    Pride and prejudice

    Streetlights dimmed,
    cafes shut down before eve,
    cars slowed down on pavements,
    busy town went to sleep.

    Another new day,
    fleeting like the morning sunrays,
    cobwebs of anxiety on fake grass lawns,
    T.V sounds seem louder
    than heartbeats.

    Posters on walls,
    teared up in the trash,
    cobblers mending a
    billionaire's sole,
    skylines melting into,
    an ocean of prejudice.

    Suspicion lingering,
    as she walks alone,
    from an office of partriarchy,
    into a hungry mens' town,
    with a strand of loose hair,
    inviting fake consent.

    Bus rides are chaotic,
    a 90 year old stands up,
    as children with airpods,
    acquire seats on either side.
    Sighs escape from nowhere,
    welcoming grave eye rolls.

    Pondering over untaught education,
    a child clings to his daddy's legs,
    Oh! Poor kid gets suffocated,
    with lies at home and cries at school.
    Who'll tell him,
    It's a dark world full of secrets?

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    This world doesn't make sense so why should I paint pictures that do?
    ~ Picasso

  • sayuriii 31w


    I'm starting to fade away,
    like December sunlight.
    My skin is oozing guilt,
    I feel helpless in this dark night.

    My eyes are the graveyards of shooting stars,
    my ears bleed a cacophony of nightmares.
    I hide behind beautiful imageries,
    that create bleak hope in my heart's layers.

    I'm tired of urging autumn and forevers,
    to sit and be the muse to my poems.
    Is hope really present in all that I write,
    or are they just broken lexicons of the same?

    With grief brimming out of this black heart,
    I'm screaming away all my fears.
    And as the sunset bleeds into my hands,
    will the night embrace my tears?

    I'm tired of searching for cause,
    to write poems that make sense.
    But I'm blinded by mirages of hell,
    their thirst for revenge, I quench.

    It's all beautiful like a dreamy slumber,
    but it ends when I blink my orbs.
    All I hear are helpless refugees,
    death chasing their juvenile sobs.

    Thorns are growing on my pen,
    weeds have grown a forest on my notebook.
    Tears are irrigating their parched roots,
    as from afar, worthlessly I look.

    Deserts have melted into turquoise seas,
    glaciers have formed crystalline rivers.
    This world has become a home for the good,
    a home for runaways and givers.

    But I'm tired of writing beautiful poems
    my hands are anchored to the guilt sea's bed.
    And maybe when sunlight will lighten up my pale face,
    I'll be a better poet in the world of the dead.

  • sayuriii 32w

    Green fields,
    naive beings,
    serene afternoons,
    senile evenings.
    Why do you colour,
    blue skies grey,
    and their valiant skin,
    with crimson liquid?
    You don't always need a news headline to remind you of important things lol

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    Cute :)

  • sayuriii 32w

    This is from the POV of a river that flows between a city and a forest.

    Of wildfires and warfare~

    If poetry was a person, she would chant prayers of saviour, she would heal the brown scars and make roses bloom, yet again. And then she would drift away with my waves, into the senile heart of a saintly being....

    Murmurs. They travel through the thick canopies on my left and drift with my waves. They come to a halt on some busy bank full of saffron flags and sinister beings. From there, they pave their way into some old stone temple. More murmurs and more sins washed, more people dead and more flowers plucked.
    They return to me, in utter dismay, in the form of cremation ashes and withered marigolds.They flood my banks on these spring days and abandon me on dark lunar eclipses.

    The forest on my left is as bare as the bodies of the humans who wash their sins on my "holy" waters and the concretes on my right are as high as my tides.
    Last year, I felled those concretes with my tides and swallowed acres of sown land. The land tasted like dead insects. I've chugged tons of sulphur and the air fairy has lost her lungs to methane. She tells me many a time,"These humans put up posters about clean cities and they spit liquor on the same, how pathetic!". Indeed, pathetic is all that comes to my mind when I recall sapiens.

    I've seen fire bloom on my shores and travel to the womb of the forest spirit. She was bearing a beautiful sapling back then but that little thing had the fate of a sand grain. They call it campfire and ignorantly leave it spreading into internity. But oh! on lunar eclipses I'm as hungry as the ocean and they drowned till they were anchored to my bed.
    I've roared till ages and now the forest is deaf enough to ignore my cries unlike before when she consoled me and the city loud enough to suffocate them. I've killed and I've freed, souls into the wilderness.

    Now, they come to me, with frowns plastered onto their mighty faces. They plead me to shower rain and hail...but....I reply with deafening silence. The war has ended on my left and just begun on my right, and when I say war I don't just mean blood and death. Wars with oneself are much, much more destructive. The sky has summoned revenge and I, have cooperated. Shedding tears after committing grave sins for eons, is of little impact.

    And when some fine day, I'll happily evaporate into the heart of some unknown empyrean, I wish to see the city calm and the forest greener than ever.

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  • sayuriii 33w

    Of things that shouldn't be secrets but somehow are :")
    #secrets #wod

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    Cold showers
    hide the secrets
    of open scars
    rusty, bloodshot eyes,
    bleeding charcoal tears,
    when both city lights,
    and the dancing demons
    of thanatophobia,
    suffocate us the same.
    Colour blind eyes,
    see the monochrome
    painting of pain,
    amidst which hide a thousand,
    a thousand shades of grey.
    Dilapidated veins,
    bursting arteries,
    paint ceramic walls,
    with crimson hues.
    Hiding behind,
    shrill sirens and
    mild cries,
    are the corpses of guilt,
    building empires.
    we're friends with fear,
    and we're the children of catastrophes,
    so what may stop,
    the blood rushing out of our heart?
    And as long as,
    morphine murders our brains,
    and morning erases all pains,
    it'll all be a secret,
    it'll all, be a lie.

  • sayuriii 34w

    #tale #wod
    Thankssssss wn��❤️

    So many cities,
    and so many palaces,
    hide the untold stories,
    of countless women.

    Of fairytale cities and a flower in my womb~

    I can see melting sceneries,
    bereft of life,
    as countless memories
    of love and war
    flash behind my eye lens
    like the fireworks,
    of a forgotten festival.
    The throne is empty,
    and so are our hearts.
    All that is left,
    are ruins of a palace
    and unclear memories
    of hearsay folklores
    about a king and a woman,
    together in love,
    together in grave.
    //The king never compromised,
    to relish in hunger,
    the remains of her soul,
    with his mighty sword//
    ~we are still entwined by the same old khadi thread that plucks the last of sequins on my dress.

    The copper vessels
    and brass treasuries,
    hold burnt manuscripts.
    And as I hold them,
    close to my eyes,
    I can feel the embers,
    smearing my palms,
    and their glint,
    painting rage,
    in my eyes.
    What lies behind,
    the washed inkings,
    of a forced harlot,
    dressed in red?
    //And she never meant,
    to be a runaway,
    but the palace doors,
    seldom let her out on her own.//
    ~ we are still in love, as I hold on to the minuscule bits of fancy fabric, melting on my collarbones.

    And I can hear my cries,
    of yesternight,
    echoing in the halls,
    and vanishing like the butterfly,
    that sat on my lap,
    and flew away,
    at the sound of his sword.
    The city outside,
    gazes awestruck,
    as I hold in grace,
    the end of my drape,
    with my shivering hands.
    Should I let go,
    all of my disgrace,
    and twirl and dance,
    in this forlorn festival?
    //Oh he wants me to dance,
    to the rhythm of his footsteps,
    but do my limbs,
    hold strength anymore?//
    ~we are still, innocent lovers, beautiful and loyal, but all in hindsight.

    The city I dreamt,
    of love and festivals,
    has transformed into something,
    of a retrospective fairytale,
    and I wish I had never,
    slept in the ecstasy of dreams.
    Love has never,
    weeped so hard,
    on the laps of a mother,
    and a fateful lover.
    //The child in my womb,
    is a pretty little lady,
    but I wish she's strong enough,
    to witness the countless homicides
    that await her in womanhood.//
    ~I still love and I still draw crooked skylines of the city (love) that (I) we never were (got.).

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    ~I still draw crooked skylines,
    on the horizons of the
    city that we never were~

  • sayuriii 36w

    I was hungry,
    I tread past the city lights
    and stepped on many a pavement,
    no pity, no empathy, in the eyes of passersby,
    I stared at my reflection on the glass windows,
    I saw more of a smeared skeleton,
    waiting to be fed so desperately,
    I ran back again,
    into this dark, dark place,
    in these warm summer sands,
    I seeked solace.

    I'm hungry again,
    I don't know if I'm rather tired,
    the city lights look dimmed today,
    the passersby, more ignorant.
    I didn't step on pavements,
    I strolled through the trashcan lane,
    nibbled on some rotten fish,
    and retired back to the warm sands.
    Oh! My eyes are teary,
    my mother taught me not to weep,
    there's still sympathy,
    lying in some heart's core deep.

    Today is another day,
    on these warm summer sands,
    the warmth a little uncanny,
    to the cold embracing my bones.
    The city is darker than ever today,
    the passersby are staying home,
    it's another human sunday,
    I may return empty stomached again.
    My heart is slow,
    I can feel it halting.
    I can see a beautiful sunset,
    and I can see my soul melting.

    Image credits- Pinterest
    #iconography #wod
    @mirakee @writersnetwork I- THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR MY FIRST POD!!!��❤️

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