#skp_writes

88 posts
  • say_me_krish 19w

    | When poetries bring life |

    I wish I wrote the way I thought,
    like the "autumn leaves falling like pieces
    into place" bringing back vintage memories,
    like the silvery rivers which take with them
    a whole ecosystem brimming with life,
    like the gladiolus which beams to the sun
    adding illuminance to the daylights;
    but expression is a tough occupation
    unlike that of reclining imaginations.

    I'd write myself into nervous breakdowns
    and unsung elegies with elegance
    inviting the dark masquerading empyreans
    and their fluttering candyfloss clouds
    so that when they rain down again,
    they wouldn't smell of the day old treachery
    and resemble the fading constellations once more,
    for happiness is a priceless champagne
    which deserves plauds after every gulp.

    I'd write to the point of suffocation
    until all my emotions travel into the pages
    and drape their attires with imageric metaphors
    and align themselves into blank crevices
    like threads which conceal the blemishes beneath,
    so that when a heartbreak glances through
    the verses which hold my elixir of life,
    they would hold an euphoric epiphany
    and rather not decorate its abysmal nothing,
    for hope is a flower meant to glisten
    in a heart which only knows to wither.

    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | July 21, 2021
    ____________________________________________

    > The first lines of each stanza is from the poem 'I wish I wrote the way I thought' by Benedict Smith.
    > The phrase in "----" is from the song 'All too well' of Taylor Swift.

    Thank you for the warm repost @writersnetwork ♥️ (79, 17) #skp_writes

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  • say_me_krish 20w

    .

    They hurled him to a desolate corner and
    dressed themselves as sanguinary mortals
    to smother his scared buds of snowdrops,
    and when the sun sung songs in the suburbs,
    he woke up with crimson pools and cuts all over.
    And when a twelve spring old irony woke up
    with autumns all around, he decided to paint
    his canvas with shades of daffodils and roses,
    to find more than mere air for another breath.
    Now when he looks in the mirror, he smiles.

    ~threnodies of a threadbare tulip~


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | July 14, 2021
    _____________________________________________

    ALSO REFER:
    > Snowdrops symbolise innocence.
    > Daffodils symbolise hope.
    > Tulips symbolise rebirth.

    I did not cry while writing this. No.
    @writersnetwork #skp_writes #introduction

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  • say_me_krish 21w

    | I k i g a i |

    I battled a thousand storms
    and survived a hundred cuts,
    but there is something
    about that one smile
    which destroys the warfield
    and embraces my lips.
    Something that makes me feel warm.

    I painted a thousand nights
    and drew a hundred moons,
    but there is something
    in the way how she walks by
    and all the colours
    merge into a single shade
    and let the stars make their patterns.
    Something that makes me feel light.

    When I stitch my spurting wounds
    and reverberate my hundred cries,
    she rests her hands over mine,
    and there is something
    in her spiritual touch
    which rebirths invisible strands
    and sings scars to slumber.
    Something that makes me feel alive.

    And when her deep-set blue eyes
    glance my nuances over time,
    there is something
    which makes the moment paraylsed
    and the heartbeats refurbished.
    Something which aligns the sunflowers
    towards the sun fervently.
    Something that makes me feel fulfilled.


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | July 12, 2020
    _____________________________________________

    'Somethings' can be described so much that they go indescribable. Paradox? Cliché?

    Thank you for the kind repost and EC @writersnetwork (77, 16) ♥️
    @squared #skp_writes #words #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 21w

    Life is a perspective put together by nature. Everything in us starts by nature, a creation of nature, continues with her nourishment, ends in her own laps and essence, and that's how it's meant to be. You never know how much of herself she puts out in vibrant hues just to see that contented smile on your face. It is how her heart is - a labyrinth with unending curves leading to the point where you feel that everything is alright, but actually isn't. There is more than just haemoglobin being pumped; there are also different shades created by her flaws only to put them all in different slots and fit it in style. A style that suits your smile.

    When all these colours can come over a conference and agree to hug each other like it has always been a great morning with linen clouds and silky sunshines, she births her best form as a rainbow. When darkness still resides inside her own labyrinth of suffering, she knows that she serves a purpose to have the mankind in fountains of happiness, and she paints those blemishes with warnishes only to let know that she has won the worst of battles plotted for her with a triumph so strong that you stay surprised. She isn't worth just two normal almonds which can observe only those seven colours and take a snapshot with mere shutters. Special immortals deserve an artistic sight which can find more than a myriad tinges she has painted on her canvas, and yet say that there lies more than just these colours. Shades of an unending lifetime. Chaos. Darkness. Battles.

    And yet she chooses understanding over everything, and molds herself into something more than an incarnation. Faith. Smile. Love. She deserves more than mere words painted green. And they don't suffice the stardust she has sprinkled on her planet to see the humankind together. Nature is more than just a person, she is a vibe who demands to be felt. And when you've done that, you've found a perfect person in the distant horizon.


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | July 10, 2021
    ________________________________________________

    @manasaa Thank you for staying there, always. I've learnt virtues from you for which I'm always grateful. I also hope you remember why I posted this by 10 am.
    #skp_writes

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  • say_me_krish 25w

    Meanings and my interpretation in the comment section :)

    @daffodilpearlzz Your guess was the closest. Congratulations, and thank you! ��♥️
    @kairos_ I did it somehow *sighs*
    @my_cup_of_poetry Special tag, you know why :)

    Thank you @writersnetwork ♥️ (76, 15)
    #skp_writes #tautogram #acrostic #wnnkrish

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    Struggles and smiles

    Painful phases,
    permeating pain-t-s,
    perturbing precipitations,
    and a person who poses behind pleated papers.

    Expending energies,
    enigmatic expressions,
    exasperating emergencies,
    and an earthling who fears endangerment hues.

    Random rancours,
    rarefied reassurances,
    renouncing representatives,
    and a race which rebirths radiant red rattles.

    Inane idiosyncrasies,
    impending impediments,
    inconspicuous inconveniences,
    and a life which implores inchoate inceptions.

    Offensive odours,
    obs-cure objections,
    occupational onslaughts,
    and an origin who obtains ocean opportunities.

    Disdain delusions,
    disconsolate di-stress,
    decelerating detriments,
    and a demure darling who dares debacles.

    Severe superstitions,
    simultaneous scrutinies,
    satisfactory stratifications,
    and a sanguine specimen who smiles sunflowers.


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | June 12, 2021

  • say_me_krish 25w

    | Galore Gratitudes |

    Mirakee,
    Door no. 8-5-1-18-20,
    4th cross, Metaphor street,
    Simile layout,
    Heaven.

    Dear friend,
    When I take a walk through the curves of my cerebrum, I remember a prose called 'Whatever We Do' written by Clifford Martis, which was printed in my Class 9 English textbook. Although my peers found it as parched as a maple leaf, I never tried telling to someone how much I've ingrained the context of that winsome creation in myself. It is just as how you can never describe the beauty of fall and sepia filters to a person who grew up in his backyard of springs descrying aesthetic sunsets.

    I've always tried to recognise what exactly makes me feel out of sorts at times. I've googled 101 ways to commit harmless suicides, and I still have the list unscathed. I've been to a counsellor asking ways to check if I'm bestowed with bipolar disorder. I've tried to sink my face in prussian blues and feel what it is like to drift away. I've felt everybody and when nobody felt what I was exactly going through, it was traumatic. And when somebody would tell me that sharing woes would help, I'd tell that I was an acrimony. I wanted to ruin myself, but at the same time, heal myself. And there came the therapy, and it was you.

    You looked like the same normal abode which was never labelled, in the beginning. I never knew why I was exactly here, but somewhere, I heard voices in me sussurating that this would be my therapeutic home. I am rooted to myself more than anybody else, and so, I stayed. I never knew what writing was. I never knew that people can still talk with all casualties despites not having met. But you were there, and just because of that, I'm here today breathing my existence. I think upon myself being a framed portrait witnessing salt pestered oceans everyday, or else.

    You filled my voids in ways I couldn't even sense. Keeping aside my discovery of finding my abyss and digging into it, I rather experienced something "euphoric and elegant". I never ever dreamt that my phalanges can curve and dance to the ballads of my brain and heart. You gave me people who felt my nuances and try to remove filth out of me without asking formal permissions. You gave me souls who could actually feel my absence in some way or the other, which was an attribute I always felt was remarkable. You brought a new change in me, something which I longed for, since months.

    I still cannot fathom the fact that I too can bloom like a lovely sunflower amidst the growling graveyards who are stuck with burials of stereotypes. Your dear fragments gave me heartwarming emotions wrapped in yellow pages of my ancient tears. I've got life lessons to which I always try to hold on to. You became that 'someone' whom I always yearned to have beside. You're somebody who can paint illuminations in the other's heart fearless of losing its own colours. Although my voids still continue to be my ornaments, I can say that the scars have lessened over time. I feel so happy when I say that I've found my heart in the right place, and that can never be stated without my gratitude to you, my love.

    I know that someday I'll have to leave your home, but I would tell you this: "Amidst distancing bodies and fading moments, there exist souls who never fail to water blossoms into each other, bring the safest sunrays in their burnt hands and construct successful empires of life and hope amidst all fearful deaths and calm less chaos. We are those souls, and our shades will colour each other forever."

    Some things cannot be repaid even by selling souls, and you're that one person. You're an immortal holding my love and hate, and you know why.


    Your proud resident
    S r i K r i s h n a P S | June 10, 2021
    ______________________________________________

    Non-fiction.
    Mirakee, I love you! Thank you for everything ❤️

    Meanings and references in the comments :")

    @poeticgirl @kairos_ See I wrote ��
    @writersnetwork (75, 14) #skp_writes #gratitude

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  • say_me_krish 25w

    .

    There was chaos
    in our catharsis,
    there was closeness
    in our chagrins,
    there were            d i s t a n c e s
    by our detriments,
    and there you existed,
    the creator
    of my madness
    which doesn't feel
    like magic anymore.

    But why?

    Because you were-
    A hu(e)man who made
    me feel home
    in looped promises
    and sucking voids.


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | June 9, 2021
    ______________________________________________

    Some questions are so unending and strange that they cannot be answered.

    @/kairos_ Thank you for making me write this ♥️ #skp_writes #abandoned #wod

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  • say_me_krish 26w

    | A rage worth everything |

    If poetry was a person,
    it would scream my voices.

    My wordly atoms would be
    constituted of th-rot-tling lines
    and mephitic scents, and my dear
    allegories served in those cafeterias
    would be spit even by the best epi-cure.
    It is y o u who transformed my journey to
    this bundle of mess, and yet, you don't regret.

    You say you fill the voids
    of the world, n' then you empty
    my beautiful breaths into potholes
    which do not deserve layerings. I have
    birthed millions with agonizing moments,
    and you never thought of filling those spaces
    between my words which screamed of liberation
    for your own welfare. Your absurdity has no bounds.

    You slayed your own kids
    and kin, swayed swords past
    their necks so cruel, tortured your
    own siblings till the limits exceeded,
    but now, I'm un--prepared to stay silent.
    When you can kill my surfaces in minutes,
    remember dear, I play my games in seconds.


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | June 05, 2021
    _____________________________________________

    From the pov of Mother earth.

    Thanks for the kind repost @writersnetwork ❤️
    (74, 14) #skp_writes #start #wod #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 26w

    "And when you'll have my carcass burnt, my flesh and bones will be dusted to ashes, but my poetries will continue sharing their existences to every passerby. A part of me will still continue the eternal life."

    #skp_writes #septolet #wod

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    Of poetries and senses

    Poetry looks like
    spectrum smiles
    and
    sangria skylines

    and thence
    radiance sheds
    away darkness.

               Poetry smells like
               vibrant hopes
               and
               new beginnings

               even when
               the universe
               conspires endings.

                         Poetry tastes of
                         cupcake joys
                         and
                         roseate solaces

                         to desolate
                         hearts pumping
                         acerbic elegies.

                                    Poetry feels like
                                   tailoring therapies
                                   and
                                   cherished melodies

                                   in times
                                   when conversations
                                   experience failure.


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a  P  S | June 03, 2021

  • say_me_krish 26w

    | 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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  • say_me_krish 28w

    | The city we never were |

    On some days,
    we were beauteous sunsets
    draped with myriad merlots of
    hopes and illuminations of
    an allegory we'd made along
    during the daytime, looking
    past our eyes like never before.
    And now I'm lingering for the
    stars, and nothing ever seems
    to radiate my soul like y o u.
    --- Disappeared daylights ---

    On some days,
    we were camera shutters
    trying to encapsulate the best
    of junctures; the ones which,
    when looked into in future life,
    would glisten blazes of soothe
    and lights of bistre fireflies.
    And now, I am unable to find
    any joy towards reminiscence;
    the storms in me feel a l i v e.
    --- Forlorn folklores ---

    On some days,
    we were battlefield ballads
    trying to hold extant in us
    the charisma and the beliefs
    that togetherness is our dear
    child, and we can feed him
    amidst the most terrible times.
    And we ended up being great
    failures, who couldn't revive
    sonnet 116 in their n a m e s.
    --- Sardonic summaries ---

    And on this day,
    you are misery to my
    thousand pieces lying on the
    ground, distorted and slayed,
    and I, am just another prey
    to your play, the one, which
    has been history, and will ne'er
    cease to be one tomorrow too.
    Honey, we were fairytales recited
    over and over, until we were
    levigated into mere d u s t.
    --- Evanescent evermores ---


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | May 24, 2021
    _________________________________________________

    ALSO REFER:
    > merlots : a gradient of red
    > allegory (here): metaphor
    > sonnet 116 : Shakespeare's famous sonnet describing love

    @writersnetwork Thanks a lot ������❤️ (70, 13)
    #skp_writes #tale #cg_city_chall #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 29w

    AUTUMN W(H)INES

    A man perches upon the redwood benches holding a flower and a diary in his hand, an abyss in his heart, metaphors rushing through his blood, and mayhem in his mind. His knots of pain untangle through his scars, bid a temporary adieu, and rush through the impulses into his pen, which has a distressed face of that boy in the next road who is unable to memorize the Shakespearean sonnet for his exams. The man sees his foot crushing the maple leaves, and he titles the poem "Flights and Falls". He wishes I never drift away. The tinge of this intensifying passenger named Nostalgia (boarding train number 8 5 1 18 20 which has an engine failure due to continuous bleeding) is my recipe.
    /It is, the tinge of Autumn- of attractions, of adieus, and of agonies paced step by step/

    When my beloved trees bellowed to leave their fellow children to the harsh grounds, I just felt for a moment that my heart was just being crushed by the hailstorms of sins. I, a madman laying carcasses to the ground, a bad- blooded season, rushed to plead the breezes to take care of my dear leaves and keep their venations unchanged. And yet, when I see their lush greens drooping towards feulliemort, it takes away something from my heart. When I see those children getting away from their dearest branches, I see in them, an agony of going stretches of galaxies apart. That intense pain has a hue, and it is entirely mine. The hue comes from a hazel-eyed boy who wept for months and years after his mother was killed in the battle of patriarchy;
    /it is, the hue of Autumn- of unending sacrifices, of separations, and of saddistic tragedies set altogether/

    The sunflowers have convened with wilted faces and rusted bodies to celebrate each other's fate towards the soil-kissed graveyards. The sun from the distant past is a kindergarten child who has his handkerchief safe for his future use. The flowers which symbolise adoration are now confused with their expressions; whether to express their sadness over losing their last 'beams' of hope, losing over their kins, or to unlock some more floods from their almond eyes for losing their own mortal existences? They hug each other for the last time, dance lightly, fearing that they might lose their hands and legs over the very accident of my arrival. Their tears sparkle like gemstones, and I see the stars getting jealous in the skies. The departure and the jealousy, both have their own shades- of calm deaths and light fires.
    /They are, the shades of Autumns- of flights, of falls, and of heart-wrenching farewells set by degrees/


    One has love, the other has sin,
    now I don't know where I have to go,
    Summer has tears, the winter has joy,
    but a bittersweet curry is still left out,
    Yellowish pages, and black-out deaths,
    this is where I am meant to stay,
    for I'm the season of fall-
    //a season of interlaced emotions//


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | May 12, 2021
    ______________________________________________

    The train number is an alphabetical code :)
    The title credits goes to @laus_deo ❤️��
    #skp_writes #autumn #wod

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  • say_me_krish 30w

    So sorry for being late maa ����
    I don't wanna pray to God, since it would be just praying to you (Happy Mother's Day too ����)
    @soulfulstirrings ❤️
    #skp_writes

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  • say_me_krish 30w

    @my_cup_of_poetry You made me write this ��
    @writersnetwork (69, 12) #skp_writes #iconography

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  • say_me_krish 30w

    COLOUR-LESS

    All he yearned was for radiance,
    and she, was charm draped in
    yellow, glistening her way
    through his mere mortal; the
    one which pumped just two
    shades of red now sent
    one more throughout his rags.
    He, became a saccharine
    orange, and his reds taught
    haemoglobin, what love is.

    Her smile was a permanence for
    his faded life; she bloomed since
    she saw roses blooming in the
    garden which was a graveyard
    holding rustic sunflowers. Every
    leman has a shade of vermilion
    with him, and his wasn't new to
    him anymore, old friends after all.
    He started watering his red roses,
    and she, kissed him everyday
    with red lipsticks; a sunkissed
    (le)man he was, indeed.

    They talked days and nights,
    walked towards azure oceans,
    appreciated the boundless skies
    to have inspired by their love.
    He turned blues towards joy,
    asked his violets to fantasize
    and empower purple lilies
    as symbols as love; and she
    stood there, thinking of ballads
    of bittersweet betrayal.

    When tides hit his shores, he
    felt his old deaths reviving
    back in new attires with the
    same old vintage smile. The
    lands which were barren weren't
    lifeless anymore; Wordsworth
    knocked his doors and asked
    for entry, and his roses agreed.
    He felt his gardens had no thorns,
    but he forgot that his(-s)tory
    is meant to rain back in a new
    form, everytime. She smiled.

    The evergreens seemed to grow
    into trees. She, the light, and he,
    the water, oh, a couple so beautiful.
    He was bestowed happiness,
    but she found and decorated
    the cracks their abodes had.
    He, felt she was a tree giving
    shelters to his life, and she,
    was the one which sucked
    in waters and killed other verdures.

    The game had started, and
    a season had ended. He had to
    welcome maples, and lose
    her soul, again. The unchaperoned
    benches waited for him, and the
    rustic diaries smelt of nostalgia,
    again. He, poured his blood out to
    write elegies which would last
    ages, alas! His blood turned
    black of toxic pain(t).
    Too much red is dark, and
    too much love is lone.

    Treachery is a flood, a
    pleasure in the beginning,
    and an apparition by the end.
    He, weeped oceans and drowned
    himself in metaphors, and she,
    shared herself with a new face;
    another future destined to death.
    What is love isn't love anymore,
    and what seemed vibrant isn't
    the same anymore. Dinginess
    is a powerful hue indeed.

    A journey from lighthouses to
    dark forests, is misery indeed.
    He, tore himself down to the last
    speck of sad poetry possible,
    and she, sketched the entire plot.
    Now tell me, who gets the credit?
    The dead, or the red?


    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | May 7, 2021
    ______________________________________________

    ALSO REFER -
    > Nashville : a blue gradient
    > Unchaperoned : unaccompanied
    > Wordsworth : William Wordsworth

    @laus_deo Thanks for the prompt! ��
    @writersnetwork Thank you! ���� (68, 12)
    #skp_writes #lighthouse #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 50w

    Couldn't have had a better third pod. Thank you so much for this overwhelming gift and surprise reposts @mirakee and @writersnetwork ❤️ (67, 11)
    Krish adores you and will miss you both ��
    ------------

    | A life without a facade |

    My mother advised me
    to have a bigger mouth
    but to make some
    ornate filigrees as my
    borders so that
    the population of my
    conversation doesn't
    drown due to overflow,
    and anger accompanying
    can make my words
    dipped in sinister letters.
    She said that people
    judge by my parlances,
    and I should neither
    bring droughts nor floods.
    -- L i m i t a t i o n s --

    My father ordered me
    to read about the
    Statue of Liberty for
    some motivations and
    applications for straight
    spines while walks,
    but warned me to
    transform my copper-parts
    to layered and steady
    stainless-steel crockeries.
    He believes that rust
    cannot have paints upon,
    and a plate can relish
    and make savour too.
    -- T o u g h n e s s --

    I said to both of them
    that living alone can
    still be a priority,
    but wearing a facade
    is not. Speaking is a
    choice, talking an
    option, and being
    myself is an essence.
    My postures are my own,
    and being somebody
    else kills my existence,
    my breakage can
    only happen when I give
    a chance, and I do not.
    I said change isn't
    The law of nature, and
    my jingle is "to evolve,
    improve and amend"
    -- (R) e v o l u t i o n --

    They said I do not
    understand the world,
    I said they did not
    understand what being
    myself meant to me.
    -- S e l f  l o v e --


    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Dec 20, 2020
    ___________________________________________________

    The previous post is meant for farewell itself, so let's make this a nice and normal literary post :)

    ALSO REFER:
    ornate filigrees- a metaphor for fences

    @writersbay #skp_writes #twosidesc #jinglec #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 51w

    | Pre-ab-sent |

    I've spent my 70080 hours
    thinking of a world
    without your presence in
    a universe which has exploded
    my love for
    you and made it
    absent in your heart,
    and present in the abyss.

    It is strange how the bathtub
    which drenched me
    in red rose petals and the
    colourless existence
    drowned me in the presence
    of dejection with
    pain holding purple chrysanthemums
    for my funeral in the
    bathroom, and
    it will happen in my
    absence, since the place
    which finds my presence
    will be a coffin and
    a pit of reasons
    which would be closed
    with some extra soil
    of excuses. After
    all, there lies
    no difference in the
    journey from the tub
    to the wood-box,
    burial is present
    as a mathematical
    common factor,
    and the only thing
    which is absent,
    is y o u.

    The showers make
    me feel cold,
    my blood feel clotted,
    my body feel numb,
    and myself feel dead.
    The campfires
    which we blazed together
    for some warmth,
    for our absent love, and
    for Santa to get some
    heat after his journey
    on sleigh would be completed
    has burnt my fantasy and
    non-fiction, and it seems to be
    total injustice.
    The fire, again, is present,
    but rage and gradients
    decide whether
    it warms or burns.
    And the love letters
    which danced in the almirahs
    to romance melodies are
    absent, and I wish
    I could satisfy the Hunger of
    the blaze and make myself
    absent.

    Whatever is absent
    for the one,
    might still be present
    for the other,
    like you, who still fakes a smile
    upon the chest of
    that guy, who might feel
    your absence and presence
    at the same time
    someday, just like I do.
    And while saying this,
    I wish I could've made you
    absent to the entire world,
    but my mother has
    taught me goodness, and said not
    to hurt anybody else.

    I'm gonna ask her
    why she didn't
    clarify me that I shouldn't hurt
    my existence just for
    somebody's absence.
    The world was injust for me,
    and justice is
    still present they say,
    and the ones who say this are
    the o n e s
    who made her
    b l i n d


    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Dec 11, 2020
    ______________________________________________

    The repetition of the words "presence" and "absence" was intentional :/
    Thanks for the repost @writersnetwork (60, 10)
    @sangfroid_soul @laus_deo #skp_writes #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 51w

    | Bearcat troubles |

    My life's a mess, and it all
    started when my innocent-eyed
    beards fell to the radiant braids-
    detaching the knots was hard
    since my hands weren't in sail,
    and hers were only good to leave
    back a carcass wig which was
    trained everyday with mimic lessons
    for a pretence, costing pities of a
    leaf which wasn't ready to hold
    dead xylems and suicide with
    a note of autumn, killed by a crush.
    And unfortunately, the game's on,
    and the pawns aren't carved to sleep.

    She came with a glue for the broken
    confines of my picture frames
    with promises of bondages, and the
    unknown facts that glues were glees
    and frames were to rot again
    crash my mind only after regrets invited.
    I sometimes felt that this was the darkest
    hour, and the next wouldn't bring
    something magnificent either.
    She was a nightmare dressed like a
    daydream, and I was a fool wrapped
    in a black suit which made me look fierce
    for a price of a whole 1000 dollars.
    My love was more precious though,
    but the bid price ended up to be a farewell.

    I didn't write poems for her for I
    feared that I might limit myself to only words,
    and I forgot in the flow that poets
    love ironies, and her grandfather was
    a poet too; ancestral blood flows in her,
    and it was again unknown to me.
    Love wasn't meant to be limited,
    but when souls grow distant and spaces
    expand, the telephone call cuts off.
    It was all a mere game of a queen
    in a white gown from the black sides,
    and I had to black out my pure whites
    after realizing things unseen and unheard
    from the thickest books of philosophy.

    It is now, and it is late, when I
    understand that things seem shocking
    and unknown since we wouldn't want
    to face the truth, and trust issues
    can make even an eye-specialist blind.
    I'm sorry for the mistake,
    but I'm not sorry for myself:
    I couldn't resurrect tombstones
    and cobblestones back to life,
    and I didn't want to.
    A demon with a makeover will
    still be a demon, and you cannot
    dress one into an angel's disguise.


    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Dec 9, 2020
    ___________________________________________________

    The title is explained in the comments section :)

    The phrase "a nightmare dressed like a daydream" is taken from Taylor Swift's song ~Blank space~

    @writersnetwork @writersbay @sangfroid_soul @laus_deo @kir_tiiii #skp_writes #tombstonec

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  • say_me_krish 52w

    .
    Her eyes are fireballs
    holding the warmth
    of springtides and beaches
    for my winters.

    Her lips are glaciers
    melting like butter
    after making a love-look
    with my ocean eyes.

    Her face is a sunflower
    which blooms for
    the break of my dawns,
    a sun-sunflower she is.

    Her heart is a street
    which rains roses
    from trees, for she's my
    symbol of uniqueness.

    She is a romance poetry
    holding her essence
    in the metaphors
    I write all day long.


    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Dec 3, 2020.
    ________________________________________________

    @writersnetwork (59, 9) @thewordplayer #skp_writes

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  • say_me_krish 53w

    "A winner is a dreamer who never gives up."
    ~ɴᴇʟsᴏɴ ᴍᴀɴᴅᴇʟᴀ

    __________

    Hello fellow Mirakeeans! I hope the sunsets are bright enough there in front of your window and sights to paint one more beautiful poem or prose on. I am extremely sorry to interrupt your view, but finally, I'm here with the results of the
    'ᴡᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴄʜᴀʟʟᴇɴɢᴇ'
    hosted by me in mid September (Don't stare at me, I was never a latecomer in my school, so I felt Mirakee was good ����)
    I've tried my best to be unbiased, I hope the decisions resemble the same :")
    Boom! ����



    �� @saya__
    A perfect piece with a sense of nostalgia, mixed with the perfect metaphors. Congratulations ��
    Here's your prize ��


    �� @thesunshineloves
    A tremendous piece illustrated with sheer beauty. "Love is the last lifeline". Congratulations ��
    Here's your prize ��


    ��@say_me_krish ��
    (since he hosted the challenge XD)
    {OK, don't gape at me ��}

































    �� @eclipsed_sun
    A pulchritudinous piece of a dark genre, yet heartwarming and hitting at the same time {what I felt XD}. Heartiest congratulations ��
    Here's your prize {the size is larger XD} ��


    CONGRATULATE ALL THE WINNERS!!!!!!!
    ___________

    And the accessits, not forgotten to be mentioned!

    @rekhuu
    A really nice piece setting an aura with the lovely description of star crossed lovers.
    Your prize, take it with your virtual hands ����


    @colourfulgreys
    A poem describing about lifestyle of our beautiful co-humans on point!
    Widen your hands to reach the shield ����


    @ariel_writes
    A short yet amazing writeup holding descriptions with truths of the present generation.
    Here is your shield ����


    @rusha_c
    "We're blooming buds till we wither", just beauteously perfect! It indeed was thoughtful.
    Take the weight of the shield coated with layers of my gratitude ����


    @sunenasharma
    A funny yet a poignant piece bringing memories of our favourite cartoons, it was really cute!
    Yours is here, lovely lady ����


    MORE CONGRATULATIONS FOR OUR SPECIAL WINNERS PLEASE ��
    ________


    This clearly was a challenge posted to get people out of their busy schedules and writersblock, and hence nobody should be saddened with the prizes. After all, I'm just your fellow friend here, and my perceptions cannot decide your writing, right? ��
    Congratulations again, to everyone who participated in my effort ����

    Stay happy, keep shining ��


    P. S. : Bg edits are done purely by me with my own template ������



    @_rainfrost_ Finally, ee lo ��������
    #skp_writes #skpc -- for all my challenges
    #smk_we_ch -- to read the submissions of this prompt

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