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  • lady_midnight 1h

    I've often wished to be a muse, carved into his poetry. A sonnet perhaps, reflected in perfect symmetry of phrases and rhymes.

    His muscular hands caressing my cheek softly and the ink falling in cascades on the fair skinned parchment.
    His thumbs trace the outline of my lips and the pen etches aching sighs. His name rolls down my tongue, stealthily.
    He murmurs kisses along my neck and quickens the pace of his words alike my erratic heartbeats.
    Fire breathes beneath my skin, and his hands bend it into passion betwixt his words.

    I've ventured beyond a poetry now, he says.
    He calls me a masterpiece like none, entrapped forever in his heart.

    ©lady_midnight

    #writersnetwork #mirakee

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  • lady_midnight 18h

    Love is an infamous innocence,
    scandalously scented.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 2w

    My mother had a vanity case full of popping cherries and firework shades. I was afraid of their roars, yet curious sometimes how they were so bold. Before I learnt to speak, I was taught to put finger on my lips, to keep my tongue locked in like the protests hidden in her vanity case.

    I grew up afraid of red the most. But it was everywhere I looked; the blood I spilled from biting too hard, keeping the cage closed to the first horror of my period I trudged from, not knowing that it was something so wrong, something so scandalous.

    I was taught how to be a woman, painted in sombre browns to blend well with the background. They told me red was for those with deformed thoughts of love and freedom, that red was a curse raging from ages.

    I opened the vanity case again that night, and they breathed a sigh of relief. Surprised yet delighted they told me tale of how patriarchy steals colours like the Grinch stole Christmas, that they couldn't steal the red flowing in me so they took away my screams.

    I shed subservience of centuries old that night, and woke up a woman, redefined. I proudly wore red, not an act of defiance but an act of acceptance. I became me the next day, a woman bleeding consciousness and power.

    ©lady_midnight

    #writersnetwork #mirakee
    @raika_ @pen_and_paper

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  • lady_midnight 3w

    I'll write something meaningful soon. Hopefully.

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    Heartache knits poetry, watching sand impersonating time.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 3w

    I thought I was prepared for farewells to come, for I have longed for endings before they had even begun. The fairytales I read, prized happily ever after and I was but a girl who had just started dreaming. I walked down the spiral staircase of memories, taken aback by the tears, flowing shamelessly.

    The walls reminded me of cages, and I smiled at the wings I had fought for in those. The silent stares of submission and angry chants of patriarchy lay buried in this house. I stood over the debris, like a phoenix born of its ashes. I was fire personified.

    The doors have always been hinged secrets, conspiracies in waiting. Rumors are open relationships no one wants, and my house was a hot-spot. I stayed away from them like I would from communicable diseases, and now I find my secrets decaying with the wood and the once burning pyre of gossips, dead cold.

    The empty stares of old picture frames tries to pull me into a moment, when capturing smiles on a sheet led me to believe it can stay forever the same. I trace my finger along the dirt, recalling the innocence bleeding to maturity.

    The home I bid adieu is the warmth of my mother's arms, the love in her food and the shine in her eyes which turns her into my goddess. She is the only religion I know, and the only home I've had. Those walls were painted happy with her smiles, and the doors never locked me in with her by my side.

    The home I have to build again, will not resemble this one. It will breathe hope through the walls, and its strength would be the love she blossomed in me.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 4w

    It's a rant, not a happy one. Doesn't make much sense.

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    Knock Knock, it's lonely

    I like being alone, but "loneliness" suffocates the self imposed kindness sometimes. Someone loves me beyond the definition of love, if there is one. I love him too, just as much probably. Someone makes up stories when I'm feeling blue, just to make me laugh.

    I must be lucky to have these someone who take up most of my heart and soul. Nonetheless, my self imposed kindness leaves the door open for loneliness to creep in like a burglar. It steals warmth from the fireplace and the blanket of smiles my someones gifted me.

    I wake up, numb to happiness. It's the tundra of feelings, and I might have migrated permanently. I am alone, like I wanted, but with an unwanted black hole of despair. A shadow; accompanying me from life to death.

    I see no clouds and my search for silver lining ends where it began. It's a trap, you see. Alone always has an alibi; it often plays the victim and we become the culprit because we sympathise with pain, mistaken for an ally.

    I have a trapdoor in these words somewhere, but it's too dark for me to find. So, I'll let loneliness and alone get acquainted like old friends here, while I wait for the night to be over.

    Shush, they don't know I know.
    Goodbye.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 4w

    Haphazard phrases with a side of Sunset

    I like evening rituals of sitting in silence and mulling over sunsets and ends while a warm cup of tea lies forgotten on the table. You can catch me chasing butterflies in my thoughts like it's the beginning of spring, all the while brown crowns adorn the Earth.

    It feels like a good story on my lips, the forgotten tea, lukewarm, waiting for the traffic of thoughts to signal green. I gulp it in parts, in sips, pausing to taste the semicolons and full stops; they keep me on edge, you know.

    They see me as a mystery, a shadow sometimes, because I like the company of sunset, skies and stories more than the gossips they partake with their cup of English tea.

    I like the satin slip hugging my curves as I let the ending wash over me, while watching the sky turn sangria to sanguine. Wind paces by my window and I watch a few tea leaves floating in the cup.

    It tasted like a rough end, with a bittersweet aftertaste, promising an epilogue. A smile hangs low tonight, making up for a rather grim evening. I'd invite you for a tea sometime, if you accept my haphazard phrases instead of headlines on a zebra crossing.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 4w

    Her imagination stretches far and wide, dwindling in feeble pages without the crutches of a reader's eye.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 6w

    My mind houses no guests,
    Who leave trail of regrets,
    Like bread crumbs to the past,
    When nostalgia crosses path.

    #writersnetwork #mirakee #regrets
    Skip, please.

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    Goodbye, with a pinch of polite sarcasm

    Regrets are assasinators;
    They are pinky swears gone bad.
    Mistakes and guilts in a soiree,
    Mistaken for a crime scene in the morning.
    They are casualties from
    A phrase of promises meant to be broken,
    A carnival of distorted mirrors,
    Gone with the wind.

    But I've called a truce,
    And waved a white flag,
    Bidding goodbye,
    To smirking regrets,
    Saying, nice to meet you
    Let's do it again sometime.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 7w

    You can find me in the diary of an unrequited lover,
    Rhyming with ghungroos of Rimjhim,
    With overflowing verses of serenity and chaos,
    He finds when my lips bloom in ecstasy of him.

    ©lady_midnight

    #writersnetwork #mirakee #rains
    Lame.

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