#writingchallenge

1085 posts
  • inborn_scribbler 2w

    Anitya

    In the leash on permanence, there is fear.
    Fear of loss,
    fear of missing out,
    fear of attachments,
    fear of suffering,
    fear of losing control.

    In impermanence, there is acceptance.
    Acceptance of grief,
    acceptance of here and now,
    acceptance of connections,
    acceptance of pain and vulnerability,
    and unleashing the freedom to let go.

    Zen isn't outside,
    on the highest mountain peak,
    or the sun-kissed beach,
    it's within the universe.
    The universe that you are.

    ©songbriti

  • cardelljhardy 2w

    Agape

    My room is full of the love of Christ
    Let His love spread from wall to wall.
    Each with people full of prayer calls.
    Like a love given from mother to child.
    Let his glory shine all over the room
    ©cardelljhardy

  • inborn_scribbler 3w

    Hello motivational speakers, mystic humans and whoever this is relevant to.
    ________________________________________________
    @writersnetwork @writerstolli @hayat_ @countablyinfinite @sarcasticbong #writersnetwork #life #imagery #writingchallenge #mirakee #wod #mentalhealthawareness #mentalhealth

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    Ways to earn money for quacks in mental healthcare:

    1. Act like you are qualified in psychology and market your unverified content in the name of "psychological facts".

    2. Make it look like people don't need to go to therapists/counsellors/psychologists/psychiatrists because your pep talks are enough to heal mental health illnesses.

    3. Use social media to grow your unethical business. After all, if it's a reel then who really cares whether it's real or not. Go live on different social media platforms, throw spoilt lemons at your followers, they will hopefully make lemonade and drink it too because you are an "influencer" and they love your blue tick.

    4. Organize deep listening sessions without any professional training in mental health.

    5. Never question your conscience. Keep minting money at the cost of someone's life.

    ©songbriti

  • jasmeet_kaur 3w

    ;
    ;
    ;
    ;
    ;
    ,
    "' ".

    ©_

  • ylviia 3w

    Nightmares

    Since I was little I didn't have dreams like a normal child
    There were never monsters under my bed or spiders I was afraid of
    My dreams kept appearing again and again
    And as so often I never knew why
    Even till today they still follow me like the picture of my own shadow
    Seldomly but the demons of my childhood keep knocking on my door every once in a while
    Just like my way to handle certain situations
    My dreams reflect on them, showing me my own true hard colours
    I just keep running away
    Like literally speaking
    I tend to ignore things and leave them open
    Instead of actually processing and digesting what I've just experienced
    I like me a good distraction, another second passes, another day went by
    Slowly my memories fade and it gets pushed to the back of my mind
    I just keep running away
    Even in my dreams I'm being followed
    Never did I dare to face the demons who are following me
    I never gave them a chance to explain
    But that's the thing with me
    I'm a runaway
    From my real life problems till my dreams
    I keep running and hidding from the corpse that was long overdue in my closet
    But in my dreams I can't run, even though my legs have never moved that fast
    I still am confronted with my issue and hell if I knew what I was running from
    But I never dared to look behind
    Not now, not ever
    Because I just keep running
    Since I was little
    ©ylviia

  • inborn_scribbler 4w

    Wardrobe

    Therapy encourages you to pull out your insecurities from the wardrobe of your mind. The fears hanging high, the ignored inner child folded between files of trauma, the maladaptive behaviours falling out at 4 a.m. when you try searching for your nightdress.

    The space is overstuffed but we won't rush for a picture-perfect moment. Healing is not about perfection anyway. We'll look at the shelves (one by one), understand what the locker has been concealing, plan what needs the laundry service and what we can rearrange.

    It could take months to dry clean the shirts of unpleasant feelings, you may not even want to touch it when you first look at it and it's okay. Whenever you are tired, we'll pause and take a mindful breath. Only after you replenish your energy, will we get back to the blue shirt you were attempting to iron.

    You'll see yourself giving away some clothes that you no longer wear. Sometimes it may be particularly difficult to let go of a few coats and ties because you've had those for years. But you've outgrown old patterns and you have been able to push yourself to buy new outfits. There were doubts and questions that popped up. Yet, you did go to the trial room before making a decision. Some decisions are easily made while some take years. It's alright, it really is. We are not displaying our progress cards on a notice board for public scrutiny.

    The wardrobe is neater on some weeks than others. The graph is not linear, it is unlikely that it will be so. In therapy, we first learn to accept the wardrobe when it is unsettled. We are aware that neatness needs consistent maintenance and it is hard work. The challenges don't go away, we train ourselves to work in their presence.

    And, while you are taking care of the wardrobe, you know that you're not alone. Your therapist is unconditionally rooting for you.

    ©songbriti

  • inborn_scribbler 4w

    I thought you were taking your footprints along with you. What are they doing on the mosaic? The stones and the ceramics confide in the damaged picture when I am cleaning up the leftovers. Leftovers of the clueless colours, of the wasted love.

    I keep mopping the floor but the footprints are more prominent. Were you leaving? Were you coming back?

    I get it. I get it now. I have been using your mop when I have my own. And, all this while I believed I was getting worse at tidying up.

    ©songbriti

  • _etincelle_5721 6w

    Emblazoned by the elixir that I was bent not broken

  • inborn_scribbler 7w

    Idiom- Disappear into thin air: to disappear completely in a way that is mysterious. (Reference: Merriam-Webster dictionary)

    #idiom #wod #mirakee #writersnetwork #pod #writingchallenge #poetry @mirakee @writersnetwork @countablyinfinite @writerstolli @sarcasticbong

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    Pauses

    The pauses you take,
    the uninformed pauses,
    when you disappear into thin air,
    it grates great reluctance
    on the road, I was about to take.
    'The road not taken.'

    It puts dazed feelings
    on a merry-go-round,
    operating on autopilot.
    Being at sea,
    robbed of definitive demarcations,
    is like blindfolding the water
    and asking it to spot the desert.

    May I pull the chain of this pause?
    Get off the train?
    Travelling without a confirmed ticket,
    not knowing when you'll be back,
    oh, this ride is not fun.

    On April Fool's Day,
    what does the mist say to the solemn sky?
    'Who can tell where I am headed?'

    ©songbriti

  • silvermoon86 9w

    There was a Plethora of choices for me.


    ©silvermoon86

  • cardelljhardy 9w

    Ships

    A fog horn in the middle of the night
    Change was little to make things right.
    Yet the silhouettes of ships sail in the night.
    And so did too, everything happy and bright.
    For I sail and float trying to exist.
    But the hurt still remains and the devil persists.
    I lit a match to burn these ships.
    But the fire gos out and trouble nips.
    If there is anybody out there that struggling at sea
    Tell the One and Only to run and flee
    Into his wings and hold onto me.
    ©cardelljhardy

  • sony_princy 14w

    Home

    Hey, there it's me..!
    Can you find who I'm I?
    I'm the only guardian angel for billions of creatures in this world whenever they are with me they feel it's the safest place in the entire universe.
    I hold memories of goodness and evil in every living being.
    I'm a part of their lives, I travel with their rollercoaster of emotions.
    They may have a tough journey throughout the day but at the end of the day, I hold them back staying by their side.
    I'm beautiful, radiant like the sunshine, tall as a giraffe, tiny as an ant and yes I may appear quite old, pale shattered and even broken as time flies but still, I look beautiful in my way holding my people.
    I have seen their rise and fall, listening to them, observing them for every millisecond.
    I'm being a reason for their happiness, bringing all of them together under one roof making the atmosphere filled with love and that's why people call me "Home"
    ©sony_princy

  • queerchildzw 15w

    Not just a house

    To some you're not quite enough, not beautiful, not strong just four ordinary walls
    They do not know your extraordinary life, the power that you have to protect human lives.
    Tell them your story.
    Tell them how you watched us children grow and protected us everyday from the harsh world outside. Tell them you are the safest space we've ever known. You're warm and familiar like a mother's embrace.
    You carry all the scars of our childhood and all our memories.
    When we learnt to paint and write and left you looking a mess, It was art and you didn't seem to mind and when mom asked who had done it you didn't tell.
    You've always been the best secret keeper.
    Do you remember when I told you about my first love, you listened and didn't judge.
    I loved a girl and you're the only one that didn't reject me for it.
    I think between all the toy cars and boys' clothes you knew more than anyone this day would come.
    That's why you'll always be my first love, you know me inside out.
    ©queerchildzw

  • the_lesser_known 15w

    The Hospital Room

    I have seen countless people staring the changing colours of the sky through my small window all day, all night.
    I have seen their courage to battle and the lost hope building inside.

    Heard them laughing out loud and screaming with tears in the eyes.

    Their faces longing for someone or something makes me want to take all their pain away.

    But, I know it's impossible for me. Because I'm the room, I have to be hollow inside.
    ©the_lesser_known

  • writerwithin 16w

    #writingchallenge #writingcontest #creativearena
    @mirakee @writersnetwork
    P.S. Didn't want to write about Jane's grandma's demise. Hence something out of the box. Not a premium member so not participating in writing challenge / contest...but do comment if you like the long post of short story.

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    Love Lost

         Jane walked through the gallery smelling like a leftover tragedy and went to her grand mother's room. She knelt on the floor and lifted the lid of a glass jar kept in the corner. Letters tied with jute threads, dried roses and old photographs filled the jar to the brim. Some colourful handmade greeting cards, a friendship band and even a few empty chocolate wrappers were concealed in that pile. Jane carefully removed the jar from under the bed. This was her safest hiding place. As her grandparents were quite old and weak they could never reach under the bed. She quickly took the jar to her room so that she could reminisce the bitter sweet moments as she went through the contents of the jar and cry over them.
         This had become a routine for her from the last few months. After returning from college, she would isolate herself from the world and take solace in the memories. She had read the letters almost thousand times. Henry was definitely a Nicholas Spark, when he wrote to her. In this era of Facebook and Instagram, they had maintained their pious connection in the most old school way possible. They had met 4 years back at a museum in London called the Keats House. A chanced encounter between the two literature fans had started something that was going to last for years. What initially started as discussion on English literature led to their whole day together. Though Jane had come with her school buddies, she stayed back. They spent a wonderful evening together before catching their respective buses from Victoria.
         Jane was from Bath and Henry from Birmingham. He was a few years elder to her, but there literary age matched. Their love for English made them do something very odd. Instead of exchanging numbers, they exchanged addresses while departing. They wanted to be penpals and this insane idea started a long series of letters. They didn't know when the initial friendly letters were slowly replaced by love letters. The exchange of friendship band was substituted by heart shaped greetings. Henry even hoped down to visit her thrice. They spent full day together every time and those were the best moments of her life. By the time, Jane started college, she became sure that Henry was her soulmate. She had saved even the wrappers of the chocolate they had shared on his visit or the red roses he had bought for her. She was head over heels in love with Henry. He was now teaching literature at the Birmingham University. She would also try for a job at the University after graduation and then they would have a happily ever after.
         But, then tragedy struck. His letters stopped suddenly a couple of months back. She waited and waited. Even her anxious letters weren't replied too. Now owing to their stupid pact, she neither had Henry's phone number nor knew his last name to be able to contact him on facebook. She just had a few photographs of them together taken during his visits to which she clung for life. She was getting depressed with each passing day and spent hours worrying about him.
        Today was one such day. She couldn't take it any more. The anticipation was killing her. Early next morning, instead of going to college she took the first bus to Birmingham and reached the address which was by heart to her by now. As soon as she closed the door of the cab, she heard a playful shreik of a child. When she turned around, she saw a girl in her early twenties rushing to the kid. As she picked up the baby, their eyes met. There was a melancholy in her eyes, which reflected in the form of dark circles on her pale face. She looked worse than how Jane was feeling. But still she gave a kind smile and enquired with Jane whether she had come from the University, while ushering her into the house.
         Henry had never mentioned any relative living with him and hence Jane was slowly trying to comprehend the situation, when her eyes caught the memorial on a piece of paper lying lazily on the table with Henry's name on it. He was smiling brightly in the picture with the birth and death dates written below it. She was on the verge of collapsing when the sad lady started talking about how her husband had contributed so much of his life to the university. He never had time for her or their two kids but always was absorbed in his research for the University. Jane had not only lost the love of her life to death but more importantly to a stranger who she didn't even know existed. Henry had not only lied about being married, he was much more older than he had told her. Even though Jane's world had shattered, she didn't have the heart to ruin the memories for the widow, who was still recovering from her loss. At that instant, Jane stood up and affirmed that she was from the University. She gave her condolences and asked if there were any letters addressed to Henry from Bath during the past months. She said she wanted them as they were official ones and need to be taken care of. As soon as Jane was handed the sealed letters, she murmured her good byes and rushed out.
         She cried all the way back to her home. Although Henry was not honest in love, she had loved him dearly. For him, she was just an assignment to improve his letter writing skills or a teenager to fool around with. But, the cruel Henry had indeed taught her love. What she had felt was real. On reaching home, she went down to her grand mother's room, got the jar and burned everything inside it. As the flares laughed at her, she cried to her heart's content. This was the last time she was crying for him. She was now free from the shackles of love.
    ©writerwithin

  • romantic__ 22w

    #question #whatif #wod #writingchallenge

    what if the world could stop spinning for one moment in time
    maybe then everyone would realize the chaos happening outside
    and maybe people would see what's truly wrong, maybe they'd see it in their eyes
    but everyone's too busy picking and prouding or creating lies
    and what if they're all liars who pick armies
    but that would make more turn, how is it so charming?
    dont you see how split apart we all truly are?
    or how this has brought a great distance between us throwing us off balance, too late and too far
    please open your eyes
    this is about wrong or right
    we dont need to choose a side
    because all of us together could win the fight.

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    question

    ©tørnrømantic

  • dedestined 24w

    Handful of seeds...

    Strewn for the sparrows...
    On a lazy terrace...

    Handful of seeds...
    Spilled from a hole in the gunny sack...
    On the truck floor...

    Handful of seeds...
    Ground to a paste,
    For decorating the floor...
    Aipan... Kollam... Alponaa...
    Signifying prosperity...

    Handful of seeds...
    The result of a handful of seeds,
    Another bout of loans,
    Soil-leeching fertilizers & pesticides,
    & Watering at 2 in the night when there finally is electricity,
    Which was supposed to yield a fieldful of seeds...
    Which was supposed to pay off the loans...
    Which was supposed to "marry off" the second eldest daughter...

    Handful of seeds...
    Clutched in the fist & also spilling out
    Of rigour mortis...
    Of the "suicide death case"...

    Handful of seeds...

    ©dedestined

  • talesbysana_ 24w

    Finding Myself

    Can I begin this piece of note by writing that one line which is being echoed in my ears and mind , through the walls of my room . Everything i look at and everything I touch screams this , which makes my heart beat faster.
    It says "I want more out of my life , I can do more , I have the power within me , but I feel inert."Yes , I know , I clearly know how much capacity or calibre I posses and I can do greater things but why am I holding back , why does all this feel pointless , why isn't there a spark or a force to push me harder to do something I really want to.
    Sitting on my bed , wearing my comfy pyjamas , having a good cup of coffee , I still hold the pain of regret.
    I feel something is missing within me.
    And it hurts the avid soul of mine !
    I ponder where all this will take me to. Sometimes I feel fearful to even dream.When I close my eyes and think about my future self ,I never get a clear vision.
    Can I be a little candid here ?
    I admit it , it took me a while to put my feelings into these words. I felt hard to pull myself up and compose my thoughts and pen it down here.
    Why do everything seems dark and hollow ?
    ©talesbysana_

  • dedestined 24w

    Rituals

    Soft "thunk"s.

    As the worn tennis ball
    Bounces down the granite steps
    Of the indoor staircase
    To the top floor.

    His wife swallows the question,
    Which was mundane in the first place
    & Silently closes the door behind her ..

    She knows him, understands him
    Well enough to grant him his space when he needs it...

    He's successful enough,
    To hire a private tennis coach for his daughter.
    Yet down-to-earth enough
    To only send her to a medium-snob club...

    She knows that this old ball has come out, not any odd ball which was lying around,
    Because this is not simply a ritual of stress,
    There is grief...
    & He will share it, once he's no longer overwhelmed by it...

    It took half a lifetime to ease him into the post-ritual couple-ly sharing...

    It's a childhood ritual...
    A raggedy coach
    At a Government school once taught him...
    To help his mind relax, focus...

    It has stayed with him
    & Served him...
    In anger,
    & Frustration...
    & Stress,
    & Surprisingly, even in grief!

    This cascade of " thunk - thunk - dub - dub - bop - bop..."...

    ©dedestined

  • dedestined 24w

    My mother's painting

    The frame on the wall talks to me
    In a language lost in memories...

    Of the time before "shabby chic"
    When art took time & effort & discipline...
    Time before cuteness replaced beauty

    The language of chalk pastels...
    & Of life-like, dull
    Lazy colours,

    Yellowish blue skies
    Greyish green trees
    Mirage-y human figure in dirty white...
    Disappearing in their "country" surroundings

    The bullock cart
    The babool shrubs
    The dust road...

    Already "poverty"... "romanticized" by the artist...

    The artist...
    Before "household" & family & "settling down"
    Penetrated its claws in her...
    Once young,
    & Afforded the freedom of dreaming, not being sure, what she wanted to be...
    Before it was sealed for her,
    A wife and a mother, what else?

    One's own mundanity is tragedy...
    Another's drudgery is art...

    The frame on the wall!


    ©dedestined