Miraquill
You turned me into poetry, swirling in your cup of tea, recited in your sighs; bereft of words, except for my name rolling off your tongue.
©lady_midnight
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When autumn meets winter
From fallen leaves to icy lanes, it's been a month. We don't talk that often, but there is your voice lingering in my head, always in open-ended arguments. You still remember the color of my eyes, or the sound of my laughter, and I still remember how satirical you are.
Those icy lanes turn into winter burrows and our memories resemble the foggy windows of your home. Cold winds whisper déjà vu and for a moment you find the warmth my name sparked in your heart.
And after every clash of winter and fall, the sandcastle of memories drown a little and we forget each other; lingering like an old song without lyrics but watching the same stars, some miles and decisions apart.
Someday, you'll come across a poetry, metaphorically becoming me, a girl you used to know and I'll give you away, in stories yet to be told.
©lady_midnight -
Nine Novembers Later
I'm standing at your door with that book in my hand, carrying stories from places I've ever called home. I can't help but wonder, if your eyes will recognize what I couldn't say?
I'm taken back novembers ago, with a box of decisions and unopened letters scattered in my room with everything else obscured by a sunset in autumn.
I'm taken back novembers ago, with smiles tucked away in those silent walks and insincere jokes. Goodbyes came soon enough, and you left without saying too much. Hope crashed and died and no eulogy could make up for it.
I'm taken back Novembers ago, where no promises were made and our hearts glistened in poetry and fall. We were strangers, weaving nostalgia from deja vu.
Nine novembers later, standing at your door, and I'm still the girl who is afraid to love. Isn't it poetic?
©lady_midnight -
lady_midnight
32w
Of browns and greys
The canopy of innocence, laughter and familiarity was lost somewhere in those autumn leaves bidding adieu to bittersweet memories. We watch the embers die and lay bare in darkness, holding on to the warmth of sadness as the realization of being far away shrieks quietly.
It was the month of poetic breeze, softly singing it's dark lullabies.
©lady_midnight -
lady_midnight
51w
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My appetite for petty words had died few years ago, when rose colored glasses were trending and reality was a highway taken by few. Since then, half written love letters lay naked on the table, covered in dust bites, a courtesy of time.
Phrases and their meanings have become a conspiracy theory, waiting to be unraveled and consumed. My forks and knives had started to rust; if not for those cooked verses, I'd have starved.
I have dishonest tales, bound in time, lying around somewhere in my mind's shore. The clock is ticking, tauntingly, as I stare at my wrinkled hands desperate to feel the petite pen's warmth. Sheets are smooth as sand, and the words are crashing like lonely waves coming home.
©lady_midnight
Won't make much sense :/When I'm gone,
Turned to ashes and dust,
And the wind picks up rhymes,
Trapped in my bones,
Remember the night,
I learnt to fly,
And gave symphony to poetries,
Forgotten in time.
©lady_midnight -
Barefoot Secrets
I've been afraid of dying with unheard stories running rampant in my head and my lips a withered bloom, playing a garland to my death. I dip a pen in the murk stirring in my heart, barely alive.
I've been afraid of turning into a shadow like my past, with hope becoming an obscurity. Desperation turns into a forlorn sigh as the page breathes one last time.
I find myself fading into oblivion, like an overrated phrase blending into its meaning or a jar of sunsets turning into clichés. I end up narrating eulogies like lullabies, while the night begets chaos.
©lady_midnight -
lady_midnight
63w
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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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Love is an infamous innocence,
scandalously scented.
©lady_midnight -
lady_midnight
65w
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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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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
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adamantquill
29w
Read MorePoetry has saved me, assuaged me and killed me all at the same time.��
Now this feels like getting POD for all of my poems so far ��
Thank you ��
#miraquillwrapped with compilation of the titles of my most poems here while some remain hidden under my bed.
#aquill_podWrapping old poetries.
I have spent some eighty nights
catching stars for filling voids
in my poems, dived deep into
the ocean to find pearly lexemes
for my wounded verses to heal.
I have fixed some broken poetries
with my quill, painted them new
with coloured ink of woven emotions.
I have written poems for my diary while
visiting a carnival at fairytales land,
I have painted tales of love lost in war,
character sketched demons of my mind,
built abandoned houses of memories,
witnessed my vault of hope getting emptied,
caressed the grief of my secret sorrows,
recited stories of fading city lights,
sang ballads of changing seasons.
Invited readers to my Quill-derland,
hummed nightly symphonies in silence,
sailed the wind in my poetry paper planes,
sipped poetries in solitaire at Café de poésie.
I remember how I selfishly overused poetry
and became a pauper in its city until
I reached the doorway to a storyteller.
I am a master defiant poet celebrating
arrival of September that hides bittersweet
emotions, engraved the memoirs of
my pain for evermore.
I have designed abstract pathway
of a wandering soul, decorated senses
in the insightful prose. I begged
December to bring poetries along the way
with tales of the brumous journey,
I borrowed metaphors from sunset
for writing my diving hopes a poem.
And wished the wind may carry my untold
poetries after the death of my soul and body;
tried rhyming my sonnet in vain.
I dipped my persona in oxymorons
while trying to escape misery through laughs
I awaited the last unhopeful night to arrive.
I feathered a quill to heal wounds,
collecting elixir words to soothe scars
only to journal a few mistakes to be
caught by a realisation that I wouldn't
know everything and how I must live
because every new day is a first time.
I have been poisoned by the ink,
slain by the quill while begging
words to either heal or kill me,
catching a disease of writing
endless poetry over the year.
©adamantquill -
mcneerakhil
29w
abandoned buildings
written word is dead &
all that's left of it
is just a far cry from another future,
one that is not yet blessed with voice
or cursed with time
the people there and their existence have not yet
overwhelmed the pace of progress,
they still are what we might call : 'Ancient'
finding stories within words..
I hope they find themselves in them stories
or atleast part of themselves,
hiding behind the obvious truth that we foresee
as a memoir of a fantastical reality
spun out heresy.
for the dreams we lest forgot,
came haunt us at night,
in ways unknown they unearthed our vulnerabilities
& our discretions
Proving just how insignificant
our actions and ideologies have been
like abandoned buildings,
on the verge of coming to life..
I can feel they have something to say
maybe it's the secrets of the foundation
or the request for rebuilding the very core that once was
And never is, lost in the words of wisdom
translated into sounds awakening this future
the abandoned buildings are the abandoned feelings,
spewed out of necessity, only to leave vintage future memories, linger in the wake of new wave of stories
woven out of words & we called, poetry..
that poetry is dead.
~a
©mcneerakhil -
maple_
31w
Read MoreWas it the cold winter Cafe,
where your eyes
followed my rants
on the beats of your fingers
tapping the edge of a coffee cup
Or the warmer kitchen corner,
where veins on your wrist
setting trails to your chest
carved love poems along the way
I read like the one
fiddling her fingers on brail,
where did I fall in love ?
Was it the daisies bathed
in morning dew
you settled behind my ear
Or the apricot evening skies
where your perfect hazel eyes
were absorbed in musings
I wished to hear,
when did I fall in love ?
Now the cup laid tilted on the bed
with coffee half dried,
making its way to
the soft fabric I touch-
-these talented rhymes
that resided on your knuckles
you engraved in these
wrinkled sheets last night
looking at you, honey
how did I fall in love ?
©maple_
#oldlovec©maple_
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branthan
31w
Read MoreI have forgotten how to write a poem.
How does it begin and end when you are
only familiar with the broken part of a story.
Find me a word, one that fits so well between
the silence you adorn when the snow starts to fall.
Maybe that's how you start, from the middle,
the one winter when you fell for the snow.
Then it flows one word after another, like moments
that fell in tune with the wind when you
gently opened the windows to welcome the cold.
Every other winter before becomes irrelevant;
mere bitter winds that fell numb on your skin.
How many fallen winters did it take you to fall in love
with the way the cold feels against your bare skin?
Life blooms from out of nowhere amid
the frozen desolation of all the fallen seasons of irrelevance;
and from the middle of the story, a poem is born.
when the final snow sinks into the ground,
the poem disappears as if it was never meant to stay.
You sit beside the open window, gazing at the
setting sun as it burns the words inked too deep
inside your skin.
Perhaps that's how it ends,
when things that were never meant to stay become
a remembrance burned too deep inside your skin.
@miraquill @writersnetworkLife blooms from out of nowhere amid
the frozen desolation of all the fallen seasons of irrelevance;
and from the middle of the story, a poem is born.
d.t -
nightwriter_i
28w
Read MoreEverytime I have whispered something I have meant it. Vacant chairs scare me, the ones that are beside me and one that's in front. There is a place where I can never be alone. I feel stuck in this loop of information and everything that sucks me in is enabling it. There are some around who never wish better, and some leave to make it better. There is always this cycle of something never ending. It's like we live in a simulation where kids push and pull buttons to tap into our imagination. Paying bonuses when we act just like they want us to, luring us into believing that we are in control of our lives.
We all have this tendency to feel important, I visit bookstores on Sundays, mainly Oxford. I sit there in desolation as if waiting for something to happen, with my eyes moored to the printed designs that speak, I almost forget everything that goes around. One such day I met this woman who was hurrying her way towards the cafeteria and almost slipped infront of me. She grabbed my left shoulder and sat down beside me, wondering what's going on, I asked if she was okay. She looked at me and and asked if she is looking beautiful. I said "yeah mam, you do, what happened?". She was wearing a black saree with white polka dots and she was actually very pretty. She told me that she was waiting for her boyfriend, whom she hasn't seen in 2 years. And that she wanted to look beautiful today. I smiled and answered that you are really pretty and he is really lucky to have you. She got up smiled and left, then she came back with a rose in her hand and a man standing beside her. She gave me the rose and told me that I made her day. It was so wholesome and so inexplicable that I couldn't stand for an hour. I sat there, waiting for the evening to pass by.
If a bunch of kids were controlling me that day, I am grateful to them. Everytime I have whispered something I have meant it and under my breath I still speak as I write.
I just want to pass by, happily. Even when trouble comes I want to pass by without a fuss, even when there's a fuss I want to pass by with tight clench and stiff shoulders, but I just want to pass by. If there's a loop, please be gentle, I don't want to pluck your eyes out and make you blind, I just want to pass by your side glances and assert what I mean.
I mean that I just want to pass by. And if I don't, then sit down with me, I have something to tell you that next time "I'll pass by".I wonder what makes me tap on the pavement rigoursly, while waiting for a sight. I am still looking for something at places I had cried.
I am looking for a smile.
©nightwriter_i -
woodsorrels
29w
Read MoreDecember looks
Like shades of tortilla
Some like dreams
Chalked on nails
And some under the
Gently used coats
And macaroon cardigans
Others prancing on the
Shaungxi teacups
And a few in a walk on hay
Around the neighbourhood
Some asleep in a
Bundled-up-backyard
At a local farm
Embracing the vibe of friluftsliv
Late-night coffee shots
On a new beige book
And wheat hued Grandma's
Knitted turtle-neck sweaters
A handful in maize fields
The teakwood candles and the
Honey lemon strepsils
It smells like the
Warmth of palms and the
Walnut heat under your feet
Whipping up a winter feast
Mulled wine and
Half-baked plum cakes
December looks like
A living era in sepia
Like poetry on dusty leaves
And the previous year enigmas
Coughing in overstuffed
And rusted closets
Willow whispers in the wind
And the stories of the succeeding
Year enveloped in pinecones
And brown roses
woodsorrels_
#coloursofdec #hopefuldec #writersbay #writersnetwork
Friluftsliv- An amalgamation of Norwegian words "open-air-life", describing the concept of passion about
outdoor life and the happiness it provides.December Tales-l
And if someday you unfollow all your profiles
in despair don't skip to plug your pockets with
hope. Look up through the trees in the colourful
skies and forge the picture of esprit it paints your
eyes with. Hold onto hope and everything else
is determined. It's Tennyson's happy face of
every new year and all that what matters
woodsorrels_ -
myrrhc
34w
Read More"cherry blossoms fall like rain here in spring."
-josee (josee, the tiger and the fish).
i think. there must be something wrong with the sky. yesterday, it had bits of itself smothered into sunlight—no clouds or birds or dust. the usual way it feels to weigh suffocation and dispersion. rain is something that hugs you as well, no different than air, but i am afraid its embrace is something one doesn't find enough. splashes from the same sea, drying up on shoelaces as one looks for the river. you are on loose matter that is stifling you around. one way or another, it made me feel like it's a curtain. this world is no more or less a window, and the sky is a curtain hiding the rest of the solar system's domain. maybe because space is an accomplice to time and thoughts and light and all things that spark oblivion. they are hiding astonishments from an i who doesn't think she's worthy. perhaps my embrace has become as warm as the sun these days; my words have grown as dispersed as cherry blossoms. maybe that's why one prefers rain.
©myrrhc
thank you so much. *curtseys*.
@writersnetwork @writersbay.
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pen_and_paper
50w
Sad but true.
A man ending
with getting bludgeoned,
like gone solitary way
all his life,
Population, pollution, power,
promises, pain, people, p's
all are poisons,
it's none of their business,
his urge to die alone,
a search for him
like he never was lost.
Didn't see
who pulled the trigger,
he was shot twice,
He admitted he was fine,
Twice.
the two ways out man,
a shadow cut in half,
trip trapped across
the four corners
of my room,
the fluidity, like hole
in the heart
dabbed from a knife
stinkin' more of wounds
than vegetables,
like wild beast eaten alive
by the wild dogs,
like a monkey,
chased and trapped
teared apart in halves
by chimpanzees,
like hot molten gold
poured on skin
like the nails uncovered
stripped from fingers.
Domination, dignity,
dreams, demons,
dismay, despair,
damn damn damn,
do die,
Everything dissolves,
into a
disagreement,
like death being blind,
not the law,
law is foolish
man made,
death is natural
not partial.
Preachings how it was
supposed to
mentally stimulating
humiliating and challenged
killed and exchanged
A man dies
who stood on the legs
of pride and glory
dies bending his knees
the philosopher is dead,
It's sad,
But true.
©pen_and_paper -
mirror
55w
Read More//khayaal
thoughts.
of what i've been doing
wasting a life so privileged
that i could make scatter plots
of all the random things
i think of
and not join the dots
because straight lines through them
are misleading and false.
thoughts of my neighbour
of the girl i saw at the mall
of all the love i let go
because my thoughts told me
that it'd be funny for love to come easy.
thoughts of you, the wonder of simplicity
the fragrance of your touch that i don't remember feeling
but thoughts, just thoughts, that institute in my head and race down my spine every time i misprize the power of my thoughts.
thoughts of seclusion, thoughts of approval,
thoughts that run parallel but travel in opposite directions
centripetal thoughts of radii that only my mind can walk
ancillary thoughts opening dimensions in my head,
that it is almost impossible for me,
to ever visit, the thought, that onset this fire.
yet, overthought thoughts that i cannot get rid of,
that i wished had a conclusion,
that made me feel less miserable about how shallow my brain is.
thoughts of ending.
thoughts of ending.
beginning
ending again
a pendulum of thoughts between right and wrong,
a myriad of emotions that somehow fit into these binary values,
that side at the opposite ends of this pendulum.
thoughts.
thoughts.
thoughts that don't make sense,
that i cannot make sense of
that keep my senses so engaged that there is nothing i can do
but think.
thoughts that i think
that power my existence, all in my head
and fade it in a world that my thoughts claim, doesn't exist.
©mirror
picture credits - pinterest
@shreyah hi cutukhayaal
©mirror
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mirror
41w
Read More
//absaar
(sight)
hazy when it rains
i look out of a window
stretching my palms towards freedom
pretending
that there is more to this world
while a subdued part of me wonders
what more can i ever see
through the only window i am allowed to keep
fuzzy when it's cold
my window is frosted
with facades and faint cries
of everything that is
protecting me from what lives
outside my room
that my crutches cannot distinguish
with two clicks on the ground
on the other side of the only window
i am allowed to keep
bright in summer, i feel heat
i try to look outside but my eyes betray me
as i fail to make sense of the beauty
that i've only drawn in pictures
that are now paper planes, flying
i scratch the window, try to break through
for myself
a view
that is for once not adulterated
with the descriptions
from the eyes of everyone else
who's been luckier than me
to see the world, unfiltered
but what view do i see
when my eyes physically prevent me
from distinguishing between
sky blue and tree green
as i sit behind a dead black screen
realising, that to me, the world shall always look alike,
through whatever window i'm allowed to keep.
©mirrorabsaar
©mirror
