One of the first few questions you come across after talking to a stranger is " Where are you from ? " Isn't it? And though we have always been mentioning our hometown as an answer to the above question, if you analyse deeply you will realise that this question asks for so much more than just a place. It seeks to know your roots and the address of your soul.
--Today, write a creative answer to the above question in the form of a poem or quote--
A refrain in literature refers to a phrase, line or group of lines repeated at intervals throughout a poem, most commonly at the end of each stanza. The practice of using refrains is very old. There exists two broad forms of refrain:
First, where a line is repeated throughout the poem and second, where words are repeated.
On January 7th 2018, The New York Times had announced that hundreds of women in Hollywood launched a movement titled ' Time's Up ' to counter harassment of women in the entertainment industry and elsewhere. The movement was initiated to give a voice to everyone and make everyone believe that they will be heard.
--Today, write a poem or prose titled ' Time's Up ' against harassment.--
Cooking is a form of art and so is writing a recipe. Recipe needs to be concise, to the point and easy to understand. Writing a recipe is like presenting the preparation of a dish right from scratch so one must include the ingredients used along with the step by step method of preparation.
--Today, write a delicious recipe for something abstract.--
You can write a recipe for happiness, sadness, love, beauty or anything else that comes to your mind.
The tradition of exchanging gifts started way back but is still a popular custom across the world. Gifts are transferred according to occasions and although it's a voluntary practice sometimes it also becomes a part of expected social behaviour.
--Today, write a poem or story about a special gift.--
We asked you a few months back about all the problems you have been facing on this platform. We have been working on resolving some of them such as keeping the spammers out, fixing the word battles, improving the explore section etc. We'd like to know if you're still facing any issues with the app. Are you receiving all the notifications? Are you enjoying the experience?
Please drop your comments below! Also, tell us if you liked the new design!
We also have a surprise for you! Read the entire post to be dazzled! ❤️
Share your feedback about this new feature in the comments. To access the new feature, update your app and visit the design screen.
We're coming up with new features and a better experience for you guys! So stay tuned.
What good is a day to me, when smitten chapters basking in a sprawling evening within me are covered with multilayered dust, and the blank spaces are filled with grime rather than affection of some indigenous hands and a yellow bookmark at crust.
What good is a day to me when my edges breathe through oxygenated masks of cob webs, and the epilogue on my backyard is succumbed to wrap into thick rust, where rivalries, stories and vulnerability of women are choked in silence losing its forbearance as a shooting star being fallen within the doors of outburst.
What good is a day to me when wisdom within my lining sky isn't showered through meteors of poetic verses and abstracts since the day an author gave me birth, closet being the only companion from exchanging opinions to teaching values and deciphering meanings out of self worth.
What good is a day to me when my existence of being a book was an uncertainty forever of blooming into the hearts of reader, but I won't shred tears of melancholy for I believe in the only certainty of my verses dwelling and resonating within every teenager.
What good is a day to me when an insentient object waits for someone to read it and appraise its unheard tales, where hopes are futile, demeanour is diminishing, black ink is smouldering, yet confidence and belief inside me wants to run on tracks of eternity till next dawn felicitate good days, till next dawn felicitate good days. ~bruisingpen
Prompt: POV of a book which hasn't been read by anyone for a long time and has been kept in a closet almost forever.
This is based on a personal day to day experience of colourism All the events mentioned above are real and have happened with me. My skin has always been something I have been criticized for. This poem is me, reclaiming my worth, my territory. @anvaya thank you for being there and pushing me to write this poem
Perpetuating hatred-- It's happening every day, While many who contribute Would be the first to say, "Don't call me a bigot. I'm broadminded as can be. It's just that I don't believe In a mixed society."
So deeply has this poison spread. The roots have long been buried. Still, in a small child's fertile mind Some seeds will still be carried. If they have heard somebody Speak out with great contempt About a colour or a race, Then hatred will ferment.
It later will flourish If no one interferes. Racial slurs and epitaphs Will frequently appear. There is an old Indian quotation, One that clearly speaks. "Don't judge a person 'til you have walked In his moccasins many weeks."
There is no person living today Who wouldn't somewhere be an outcast. If everyone would just remember that, We might have peace at last.
Wouldn't it be better, If all could be downhill-ed to the latter, And I could sleep-- between house loans and melting bones, Through the sound of silence which echoes Among the words on the notices I couldn't read, Because I was too busy Dreaming all along, Among the letters i do not want to read, Because I was hallucinating all along.
The moon sets repeatedly fading with every eight heartbeats, with cold glowing red through the crevices As my eyes play hide and seek with second chances. What am I supposed to do, when the barn is brimming with sheeps, night in and out, sleeplessness has constantly made me weep; a clock that breaks past midnight, and the promises that I could never keep.
I strech and groan, of the insanity which has begun to grow within. Through the fingertips towards the heart that has turned to stone To the tales I weave and then creep along the rusty nails which keep the only photograph of her hanging. To admire the old love, milking it, the only thing which doesn't let me sink.
watching myself in the mirror, it's only a broken man; but, will you be able to see your own reflection when the light's out, when it's dark outside, when you've these thoughts of suicide. you will never hear me talking about waking up in the morning, a dead man never wakes up, he tells no tales — he takes nothing, but only excedrin, excedrin, could you please help me to get to the brink of the heaven's gate; that has been keeping a good night's sleep, from me.
what's the occasion, so late at night ? why are they crowding the street outside my porch ? what's with the celebration and the loud music ? they've managed to ruin my ruined sleep. shouting kids, dancing families, and, the elderlies look like they found a new life; whilst, altogether they've gotten me closer to the knife, and the glock-19; every laughter is almost as if someone's hammering down the last nails to my coffin — excedrin, excedrin, could you please show me the way back to my nyquil.
is it me, who's losing his religion or, is it the religion that's losing me; because, my faith is as low as the serotonin in my bloodstream. paranoid, that one of these nights, insomnia might make me claw out my eyeballs; just to head back into my mother's lap — and sleep, like there's no tomorrow; but until then, there's much to face — days of sorrow, turning into nights filled with morose.
Peace and tranquility seem like a dream to me. So ironical though, as dreams are the reason for my misery. These dreams, they don't allow me to shut my eyes as they fear their existence would never become a reality. They fear they'll be another forgotten chapter. Hence, they pound on my imagination to carve their place.
I'm tired now! Tired of dreaming. Tired of telling myself that the silver lining is just around the corner. Tired of reminding myself that the gazebo of darkness will lead me to my home, to my sunshine. Tired of pacifying myself that this too shall pass. Tired of consoling myself, for this is just a phase.
My heart wants to take control but my head won't leave the throne. I guess I gave too much power to it as now it possesses more than me. Forcing me to relinquish control over my very own body.
As a kid, dreams fascinated me. For how our imagination could construct a world of itself. Where everything goes according to our desire. Nothing to worry about at all. And in this procedure of faking a world, I lost control on the real one.
I have no idea what I want anymore. Do I want to put a smile and believe everything will be fine, or do I want to stay betwixt the cobwebs of the dark attic where I'm a prisoner currently? For I've lost track of everything. Discombobulated to the core.
@mirakee thank you so much for the POD! It's a real honour and a delight. And thank you for everyone who took a moment read this slice of history from my home town.
Hey, guys. I know it's been a while. Sorry, I couldn't read your magical pieces. University has started, so I won't be able to be here as frequently as I used to, but I'll definitely come around as soon as I get some free time. Thank you for asking @heartsease@fairytales_@asmita_chakraborty I was really touched by the gesture.
And a few words about the Fort. This is one of the most stunning vistas in Galle, Sri Lanka, which is incidentally, my home town. ________________________________________________
THE OLD FORT
The old Fort stands
By the edge of the coast
As the waves smash against
Her moss covered stone walls
Those proud greying walls
Worn smooth from centuries
The ruined battlements still remain
Nestled between the fallen towers
Where the canons used to stand
Oh, the cannons!
How the fort misses them
Her own majestic children
Now all tucked away
In the dusty alcoves
Of the unvisited museum
The clock tower is silent
It's bells haven't rung in years
The broken clock face
Where no one's eyes rest
What she wouldn't give
To hear the bells again...
To feel the resounding heartbeat
Of the footfalls of marching soldiers
Upon stone pavements of her skin
Of course she's heard that war is wrong
And maybe there's truth in that
After all, she still hasn't forgotten
The combined scent of blood and sweat
That soaked through her earth
A long, long time ago
But war has been her life
The only time she's felt alive
Her songs mingled with battle cries
Her soul flying along the crimson standards
Her own halcyon days
Written in the ink of battle
Now nothing remains
Of those glory days
Instead, there are crying children
And flustered mothers buying ice creams
The regal soldiers at attention
Replaced with flower filled pavements
And quaint little tea shops
The place where the squadron's flag stood
Rippling in the air with victory
Is now the backdrop
For the "#'@" selfies
//Cut the cord and pull some strings make yourself some angel wings and if those angel wings don't fly someone's going to paint you another sky// -Paper doll by John Mayer
A battalion named after us, a land for brothers and sisters but then there were guns that backfired and in the stampede born of confusion and trepidation our innocence died a painful death.
In the process of our everyday negotiations with the world we often switch between being generous and being selfish and with the passage of time hate burgeons between people distancing them above and beyond.
When the urge for vengeance reaches a fever pitch that's when bridges break that's when things fall apart that's when your wounds smile roguishly before rubbing the leftover salt in the wounds of many others.
But the world is not a chess floor on a personal level it's your own perspective that determines what is right and what is wrong the world is way too complicated for you to not always contradict your own ideas and decisions for you to be able to think at all times in the terms of absolute black-and-white.