•вι∂уα в.• I'm so good at getting lost in unlighted nights.

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  • love_whispererr 19h

    It takes a lot of courage to visit those scars.

    #goodbye #wod

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    O scars ! goodbye
    sorry, I couldn't apologize

    I visited those scars
    on the third night of December at three am
    in a terrible winter night
    holding my unwrinkled derma
    and wrinkled hopes
    I wrote down a letter for them
    and put that inside a colourful envelope
    and was going to visit them
    with the presence of chandeliers
    I was nervous, a little.

    Because I had to apologise to them
    for those stains, for some sins
    some cold breezes were blowing
    and I had to meet their pathetic gazes
    I sighed ;
    and knocked their door with my trembling hands
    someone switched on the light of the chandelier
    and greeted me with a poetic look
    made up of some heartbreaks, bloodstains
    and shattered skins.

    Ah !
    I couldn't meet them
    I couldn't see them
    I couldn't apologize
    for my bad days
    I couldn't cry
    I couldn't scream too
    they were silent
    with their pitiful gazes and teary eyes
    behind those eyes, a limpid purdah was cursing me loudly.

    I threw away that envelope
    and ran towards an unknown destination

    ~o scars ! goodbye


  • love_whispererr 1d

    #rhetoric #wod

    Thank you so much @writersnetwork ��

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    What is poetry ?
    A crutch which sustains some metaphors
    and torments many forgetful obituaries
    A hickey near her neck which crawls
    towards the poetic spindrift with a smirk.

    What is the colour of the poetry ?
    Like the whipped cream on the expresso
    so as the landscape gagged by crimson red
    Like the blue candles on the vanilla cake
    so as the effigy painted by shades of sunset.

    Where does the poetry bloom ?
    Beneath the turmoil near some funeral urns
    while chewing mouthful of lies and dreams
    And with the breezes from Rome in ittar of Cleopatra
    while forgetting grief & murmuring about deadly wars.

    When does the poetry sprout ?
    When those faded facades collapse
    when some thoughts backstab many headstones
    when phantoms start to accompany
    living souls without barks of mongrels.

    How does the poetry look ?
    Like a newly married bride with fumy eyes
    holding a bouquet decorated with chaotic syllables
    Like a withered tulip in the columbarium
    covered with many sighs & unfulfilled desires.

    Poetry is a lie
    which carries many sealed vehemences
    Poetry is a shadow
    which covers speckles with lampshades
    Poetry is "you"
    which never exists still never disappoints
    Poetry is "me"
    which exists still disappoints everytime.

    ⑉bidya || probably this is "me" not "you"

  • love_whispererr 2d

    (Pc_Natalia Drepina)

    #memories #wod

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  • love_whispererr 3d

    मिलके भी हम मिलते नहीं
    खिलके भी गुल खिलते नहीं...

    #ode #wod

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    What if
    those teacups
    never spilt on your white skirt
    in a summer afternoon ?

    What if
    those hiccups
    never reminded you
    of your existence
    and of your muddled death ?

    What if
    those shades
    of your penthouse
    never melted on
    the skin of your poetry ?

    What if
    those tulips
    of your garden
    never touched by
    the antenna of a
    multicolored butterfly ?

    What if
    that damned ghost
    never accompanied you
    inside the fiendish veil &
    inside the courtyards of grief ?

    What if
    those chandeliers
    never embellished
    your scars
    with their luminous beams

    What if
    those unknown gazes
    of a crowd never collapsed
    inside the known crocks of headstones ?

    What if
    those clumsy ringlets
    of her hair never
    fluttered your heart with fumy smiles ?

    To those teacups
    To those hiccups
    To those tulips
    To those penthouses
    To those ghosts
    To those chandeliers
    To those unknown gazes
    To those clumsy ringlets
    To you
    From me.

    ✿ вι∂уα || not a poet who can put down odes

  • love_whispererr 4d

    (Pc_Natalia Drepina Photography)

    #obituary #wod

    Thank you so much @writersnetwork ��

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  • love_whispererr 5d


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  • love_whispererr 1w

    The civilization of poetries between two teacups

    Looking at some crotches
    of the banyan tree
    through the kitchen window
    she boils water to make two teacups
    for her husband and his friend
    Inside those crotches,
    some sparrows chirrup
    while chewing some grains and
    she seals some metaphors
    inside the half-boiled water.
    ~logically muddled

    Putting tea and adding hot water
    she burns those syllables while clutching
    the burner of gas cylinder
    Those clouds dawdle
    her black hair ruffles
    Lappet of her unnoticed gown murmurs
    but a fumy sigh affirms its existence
    amid of those whistles of a pressure cooker.
    ~sauntering dead

    Steeping the tea for her sweetheart
    she looks at some unnoticed speckles
    of her hand but those bangles
    try hard to hide them again and again
    Those pot marigolds twirl
    the undyed wind whispers
    but her balladries try very hard
    to melt inside the lampshade of room lamp.
    ~crunching up-chuck

    Straining those tea solids
    she pours hot tea into multicolored tea cups
    and walks towards the guest room while
    throwing some thoughts and many lexicons
    into the fiendish dustbin of the kitchen
    A poet drowns again
    when the clock hits the half hour
    and she plunges off into some deadly phantoms.
    ~faithful folklore

    ✿ вι∂уα || with many secluded oxymorons

  • love_whispererr 1w

    An anachronism is an error in the timeline or chronology of a piece of literature. This can be a purposeful or accidental error.

    Mine is accidental, I think.

    #anachronism #wod #anachromism

    Thank you so much @writersnetwork ��

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    A relaxing night with a c̶r̶e̶e̶p̶y̶ crawly lizard

    Ah ! some chaos were whispering again

    neither those black clouds were dawdling
    nor those silken stars were dazzling
    A blackness was there
    on the another side of my window curtains
    and on this side, some gray shades were smirking.
    Neither those katydids were murmuring
    nor that monster was stabbing my stomach;
    stillness around, hushed but not peaceful.

    Ah! the mayhem is concocting again.

    "Are you sleeping ?"
    Someone whispered near my left ear.
    I opened my eyes and saw the nostril of a house lizard.

    "No, I'm not..."
    "Why, it's nearly two o' clock !
    atoning for some fumy sins
    or lamenting for some heartbreaks."

    I looked at the lizard who was mumbling some
    damned phrases while gawning
    some fortifying candours with those claws.

    "Neither I'm grieving nor I'm atoning for
    I'm a poet
    Sewing the doomed heart
    with some mystical threads of metaphors
    and departing from the realm of your existence
    and some of my inner confusions.

    Stopping by the breezes of Babylon
    and dropping by the collapses of Harappa,
    I'm chewing the sobbing syllables
    of moaning mothers and innocent children
    near the courtyards of war and civilization.

    I'm crunching the pieces of lonesome bushes
    and somewhere I'm vomitting the charcoals of turmoil
    Inside the crocks of hue and cry,
    I'm trying to scribbling rants for the night."

    I heard a mild sigh there.

    "Probably you're inside a babel of phantoms,
    but nice to meet you miss poet
    Will see you soon in another secluded night
    with many uncherished conversations."
    That lizard said with twenty three pauses.

    ✿ вι∂уα || accidentally a poet

  • love_whispererr 1w

    Dear James,

    Your love was like that of a little boy running after a butterfly with a net but alas you never realised that I was not meant to be caught, I was not meant to be grabbed by the golden cage, I was not meant to be clutched by your hopeless emotions.

    I was the poetry, not meant to be garnished under your lonesome candelabras. I had to affirm my existence inside the mayhem of fumy headstones. But inside the sockets of those chandeliers, I burnt like a cotton wick dipped in mystical oils.

    I was the art, neither meant to be hung on your bedroom nor embellished with your mild gazes of fresh eyes. But inside the courtyards of Mohenjo-daro, I collapsed like the walls of big houses, like never before .

    Now I'm alone, terribly alone like an effigy standing on the centre of a known city with many unknown gazes and sheer blackness. But I feel relaxed without your (lov/cag)e.

    N̶o̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶r̶s̶

    #wod #hyperboles

    Thank you so much @writersnetwork ��

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  • love_whispererr 1w

    Fresco(v)- paint in fresco

    #fresco #wod

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    Because I refuse to be frescoed by wilted flowers...

    Like those beams of sunshine
    like those tendrils of moon vines
    like the dawdling aroma of daffodils
    like those fronds of palm trees
    like those hymns of your existence
    let me bloom.

    I refuse to wither
    I refuse to droop
    I refuse to fade
    I refuse to perish
    and you look stressed again with your tensed eyes.

    Near the necropolis of my megalopolis,
    I bury those shoes of the cindrella
    but some fairytales are really awful ; terribly.
    near the corner of my meadow
    I burn many blue gowns of your existence
    because they are piercing my brown skin darling.

    I'm the portrait of the queen Cleopatra
    but not to be kept inside a museum
    let me fly inside the artifice of Rome.

    I'm the maple leaf of your summer
    but not to be put inside your forgotten pages
    let me lie on the sheets of bodacious nature.

    I'm the red gulmohar of your garden
    but not to be adorned inside your beloved's ringlet
    let me bloom and wither on my green branches.

    I'm the night jasmine of your December
    but not to be decorated with your wretched verses
    let me sleep with an aesthetic touch of stormy night.

    I'm the breath of a poetry
    I'm the sigh of October, probably
    I'm the art ; uncontrollably
    I'm a sad goodbye eventually
    I'm the mystery of Babylon history
    I'm nothing ; possibly
    Still I'm me ; hopelessly
    and refusing to wither again, honestly.

    Let me rise
    Let me bloom
    Let me fly
    Let me live for a while.

    ❛ bidya