Mirakee
Gift exchange
Do you like the tradition of exchanging gifts ?
mirakee
Welcome to Mirakee’s official page! Improve your writing with our daily challenges. Use #pod to nominate your posts for reposts.
Grid View
List View
Reposts
-
mirakee
18h
Read MoreThe 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.--
Tag with #gifts and share.
#wod -
mirakee
1d
Read More
Writer's block is a condition, primarily associated with writing, in which an author is unable to produce new work or experiences a creative slowdown.
( source: wikipedia )
As writers who mostly express through written words , it must be painful to not be able to write. Today's challenge revolves around helping such writers.
--Write a heartwarming letter to someone in writer's block--
Tag with #letter and share.
#wodWriter's block
Have you ever experienced writer's block ? -
mirakee
2d
Read More
Hi fam! ��
How are you all doing? ❤️
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.
Lots and lots of love,
From Team ��
#mirakeefamily #miraquill #updateMiraquill
Please note : Miraquill Videos is currently available in BETA for Sapphire members.Introducing Miraquill Videos!
You can now convert your posts to videos and share them on your social media channels!
Write awesome content and we will auto-design your post, overlay it on a beautiful video background, narrate your content eloquently, and add some soothing music that will tug at your heartstrings.
Update your app and give it a try. Bring your words to life! -
mirakee
2d
Read More
“The two hardest things to say in life are hello for the first time and goodbye for the last.”
- Moira Rogers
Goodbyes often act as wake up calls. All of a sudden memories rush in and we get filled with angst. It's also said that no matter how much you are prepared, the final goodbyes always hurt.
--Today, write a poem or prose about goodbyes--
Tag with #goodbye and share.
#wodGoodbyes
What's that last thing you said goodbye to? -
mirakee
3d
Read More
Gear up Mirakeeans!
~
Get creative, go to writing contests in the Creative Arena and participate in the ongoing "Conversation building" challenge to win a trophy..
-
mirakee
3d
Read More
A rhetorical question is a figure of speech in which a question is asked to produce an effect on the listener or make a persuasive point, rather than to obtain information. For example, if a person asks, "How many times do I have to tell you to take your meals on time?" the speaker's goal is to emphasize his or her concern regarding health!
--Today, write a creative prose or poem using a rhetorical question in it.--
Tag with #rhetoric and share.
#wodRhetorical question.
Do birds fly ?
So do poetries
if you hold them
too tight. -
mirakee
4d
Read More
Toru Dutt in the poem "Our Casuarina Tree" explains how the tree continued to hold an important place in her heart even after she grew up because she along with her siblings who are no more, had spent happy moments under it during childhood. The poem speaks volumes about how memories play an important role in our lives.
--Today, write a creative piece about your childhood memories.--
Tag with #memories and share.
#wodMemories
Let's revisit our childhood! -
mirakee
4d
Read More
--
Conversation building.
--
#writingcontest #creativearena
Head to Creative Arena to participate in this writing contest and win a trophy!Conversation building.
Get creative, use your imagination and participate in this contest to win a trophy.
--Build on the conversation starting with--
"How was your day? "
"My days are lying in a corner. Stoned, crippled and rusted. Nights stretch too long. I walk a mile and these waves push me back two miles. But I just don't stop breathing and hoping for light." -
mirakee
5d
Read More
An ode is a form of poetry that expresses praise, glorification, or tribute. It examines its subject from both an emotional and an intellectual perspective. Though Classic odes have a strict format, there also exists modern irregular ode and in the recent times poets have experimented a lot with this form.
--Today , write an ode to a domestic object.--
You can write an ode to cell phone , books , carpet or anything else that comes to your mind.
Tag with #ode and share.
#wodOde
Today glorify the ordinary! -
mirakee
1w
Read More
Congratulations! ��❤️
Winner of Complete the letter challenge is @akanksha_manish ! ��
Thanks to everyone who participated and helped make this contest a success!♥️.
-
__adyasha__
6h
Read MoreA Secret Romance.
Mountains and meadows
Dew drops on the leaves
that followed.
Misty air and lovely chirps
ricocheted.
Ballads that sounded from
the magnificent manors
with
Subtle giggles and
joyous laughter
that came along.
Fairy lights and fireflies
flickered around.
Stars twinkled
with the
colossal evening star.
The lake in the woods
spread the tunes that
the swans sang,
Of love and gaiety.
Deep inside the woods,
moon flowers bloomed.
So beautiful,
yet so vulnerable
Like the lone Luna.
A crying kiss hid
the gorgeous smile.
Somewhere afar,
a heart of gold was
melting,
Casting away into
A secret romance.
- AdyashaA Secret Romance.
-
severed_strings
1d
Read More@severed_strings
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.
------------------------------------------------------------------
@thefoxisdead
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.
(see you
in my dreams, my friend —
goodnight).
©the_fox
_____
It was lovelyyy working with you sweet soul :>
Edit: thank you so much you guyss. We're both honoured by all the love and wishes. (XD and super happy)
Also, he's such an intelligent writer, isn't he?
11.04.2021~deus ex machina (a collaboration)
-
thehemantkashyap
2d
Read MoreWell, good evening, y'all.
Dramaturgy is a concept in sociology which means that a person perceives their life as a role they have to play on a stage. The term was first coined by Erving Goffman.
The concept was also put in a beautiful song by EVE, a Japanese artist. You can find the song on YouTube.
#podDramaturgy
I look at my
hands and I
see the ground
beneath - cracked skin
like a scorched
field, with channels long dried.
I don't know where
I stand - the spotlight is
blinding me to
the surroundings. I
look at the
faces in front of
me - oh, I am
in an act. Better
straighten my tie, tie my
laces, brush my hair,
but most importantly,
smile.
Smile. Yes, good.
Smile like the coast,
battered, like the
wave that dies on it,
ad nauseum,
I smile.
I stand like a
soldier, ready to be
cannon fodder, chin up,
chest out,
gun at the ready,
painted red.
I happen to be in the
eye of a perfect storm; I
happen to be at
the center of
all the destruction - debris
flying around, cutting a
bloody path.
I watch on - rather
helplessly.
But I must smile
and so I do.
The applause rings
and it rings
hollow; deafeningly so.
All I wish for is a
grain of silence.
©thehemantkashyap -
the_speccy_outsider
3d
Read MorePeace 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.
©the_speccy_outsider
#rhetoric
Picture Credits: To the rightful owner.
P.S. @mirakee Thank you so very much for the kind repost! Second POD! ����
@writersnetwork Thank you so very much for the tenth repost! ��Discombobulated
-
a_gentilischi
4d
Read More@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
The cannons...
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
And still she stands.
2021.04.08
Written rights : ©a_gentilischi
#memories #places #pod
#mirakee #writersnetwork #writersbay
@mirakee @writersnetwork
#time #history #beginning #ending #town
#home #fort #battle #ramparts #ruins
#memories #halycon #wnreagent.
©a_gentilischi
-
surefire
5d
Read More//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.
©surefire
@mirakee thank you so much
I am thankful to all my friends, well-wishers and my readers ❤
#sfwn.
-
moitreyee
1w
Read More
Will you be the lyrics of the twilight song I long to sing ?
-M
@writersnetworkc a s c a d e
~not seldom do they ask me to sing~
I rest my bones
in solitude's lap
wrapping my syllables
to burn curious sights
I fear not monsters
but growling wars
that suck lullabies
out of me.
~not seldom do they ask me to love~
I place my heart
at a blink's distance
to let stars knock my skin
and grip my ribs
with their shine
exfoliating facts
that wreck trust
anigh me.
~not seldom do they ask me to hope~
I call for horizons
to sit anigh my temples
narrate me tales
biting my myths
of whirlpools being better
than forevers
that break faith
around me.
~not seldom do they ask me to wait~
I soothe my throat
to let sunsets
burn prophets in peace
letting them drown
like promising cascades
of flowing rhymes
that inhales longings
within me.
©moitreyee -
Chamber of Flowers
I beheld the realm of flowers
A bewitching beauty — aroused
My sense of wonder.
In the first chamber, I saw
A loitering swain with a red hue
Embellished in his cheeks
Ah ! A host of coquettish Roses.
The second chamber—
Bright as the forenoon sky
Presented the Sunflowers, usurped—
The sight of every soulful eye.
The third chamber—
Imbued innocence and purity
Or elegance and beauty of dandified
White Orchids— becharmed the mealybugs.
The fourth chamber—
Beside the lake—lies the Daffodils
Stunned at his own reflection
Fell in love with himself— Pathetic Narcissus.
And there we are
In the chamber of Freya—
Where lies the blossom of Daisies
With innocence and purity.
And finally, the Elysium—
The chamber of Lavender
With an alluring fragrance—
A purple lake, I've drowned
Bewitched my soul and senses,
It won my heart.
©gaayathri -
adamantquill
1w
Read MorePOD¿? �� Thank you so much for appreciating this piece ������
#oxymoron #writersnetwork #podOxymoronic world
M.E.L.A.N.C.H.O.L.I.C H.A.P.P.I.N.E.S.S
Forbearance of the cognizant self
beset in melancholy, yet surmounted
with a dash of happiness that dances
on the footsteps of a sad muse.
How strong that soul must be!
M.O.N.O.T.O.N.O.U.S S.U.N.S.H.I.N.E
Each day varies and every sunshine is not
so bright. To some it is the dazzling rays
of light and to some it is just a monotone
shade of nature, burning as they touch,
clouding inside as they pierce.
B.E.A.U.T.I.F.U.L S.C.A.R.S
Who even named them ugly, the scars
that are so similar to the folktale heroes,
the scars that enumerate one's life and
their story and the battles they fought,
the scars that are both visibly and invisibly beautiful.
L.O.A.T.H.F.U.L L.O.V.E
A person that hurts you, one worthy of your hate
yet you are tied and chained by the love
for them, you fail to hate them so you hate
yourself for loving them. Try harder to love
yourself more and you will witness the chains
unchain themselves and freeing you of pain.
H.E.A.V.E.N.L.Y H.E.L.L
This vibrant and heavenly beautiful world
of ours, that is providing the well beings
of life to live and die, yet it is so prisonous
and dark cage where atrocities dwell,
where it is hard to breathe in
and all I can think of it as a representation
of a hell disguised in a heaven.
©adamantquill -
I am a tangle
of poetries-
flamboyant and bold,
embodiment of art,
rhymes that never get old;
a whiff of inane metaphors
blocking my nasal cavity,
I breathe through chapped lips
mordacious words, you call me witty.
I am a verse
that goes unheard,
unwritten,
unnamed,
like another pebble
on the shore-
so plain.
I am a ferocious mutiny
against
the deeply ingrained patriarchy;
blood of a thousand
silenced souls
drips down my feet
staining their perfectly polished
marble flooring
and they call me
tainted.
I am the submissive sheep
no longer needed,
knife by the throat-
slaughtered like another weakling.
Running through my veins
are cowardice and pain,
arteries are collapsing
and so is the hope
living in them;
illusions and mirrors
don't go hand in hand,
with guns and thorns
dreams are massacred by reality.
©blueth
