Miraquill
When scared to loose something
Let go
Let go of that fear
And witness magic
Unfold.
©neversandforevers
neversandforevers
Writer|Reader|Free thinker
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They said,
"The most beautiful art is
looking into someone's eyes
when they talk about the
things they love."
And I said,
"Or looking at someone you love.
Or maybe, just maybe,
by looking at the mirror
is the most beautiful art
anyone could appreciate."
©neversandforevers -
Sometimes, a big change brings pain.
Accepting and working through it
Must be a priority.
©neversandforevers -
I search for home
I don't find it.
I need home.
But where is it.
©neversandforevers -
Don't procrastinate
For the sand is running swiftly through the hourglass
For every idle word
For every idle thought
Is time that will never be resumed
The sand is chasing
Running speedily, Slipping hastefully
And there is more sand at the bottom of the hourglass than at the top
Make haste
Do what you have to do, and do it well
No second chances
Until all the sand has run through
And the value of your sand of life shall be weighed up
Don't be slow at doing good
Don't say tomorrow
For we only have today -
i hope that every evening, your
hands cradle a tired
face, that your legs find themselves warm and
tangled,
that you have the freedom to
kiss those hands,
palms, knuckles,
trace scars and forgive straying from the path,
rub shoulders and hold til it's all right.
to know
that it's okay to feel this way,
it isn't a sin to breathe this way,
it's okay to Be
in this way.
i pray that you can love yourself at night.
©neversandforevers -
forever still doesnt feel long enough when it comes to you.
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All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
J.R.R. Tolkien -
We're not just made of love,
We're not just made of despair,
You're not just one broken piece,
You're a unique person,
Made up of multiple pieces,
It's just that, sometimes our pieces are put together wrong by others, or by yourself,
But that's okay,
Because we can change the pattern of our pieces, we can change who we are, for the better,
Or for the worse.
It's simply up to you,
On how you change your pieces
©neversandforevers -
Ignorance
who are you
to stand in my way so steadily
said the woodpecker
to the tree
©neversandforevers
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jaya___
85w
Read MoreSKIN
It’s since childhood that I have been seeing creams (which people buy like mad) that makes girls fair so that it leads to loveliness (Hello “Fair and Lovely”!). Because obviously, for Indians, dark skin is not lovely.
I was once called “wheatish” by a professor in college. That was the first time I had heard that adjective for myself. I thought fair and dark were the terms for skin tones. Now there was wheatish. I was seen by my darker friends with some palpable envy. And I saw some smirk on the faces of the fairer girls. So there I was, somewhere in the middle of the newly discovered beauty scales.
I also remember how angry/ hurt/insulted I felt for not being considered fair by the professor. Even though I did not place importance to fairness, but now I realized I subconsciously did.
My dearest friend used to say, as a small wide eyed girl, when we were in fourth standard, that I was so beautiful, and by beautiful she meant that I was fairer than her. She told me how her mother used to apply “ubtan”, which is a homemade turmeric pack or something, to clear her skin. I had innocently asked her, “Your skin is already so clean, why clean it more”?”
By that time I had not realised that fairness is seen as pure and darker skins are meant to be cleaned, made to glow.
Thanks to “Black Lives Matter” movement, light has been shown to the discrimination girls face simply for their skin tones. Here in India too. But still the creams are being sold. Not as “Fair and Lovely” which is explicitly rude and demeaning to Indian women, but as “Glow and Lovely”.
And it is still demeaning. Why can’t we live as our normal selves, why do I need to be Fair/Glowing to feel confident. Or for me to become an air hostess, a model, an actress and even a news anchor? And primarily to be married?
All our self-worth is accumulated on our looks. If a girl by chance is fair, then we start scrutinizing her figure, and start fat shaming or preaching her to clean her body hair, or start smiling more.
(For example, I am so criticized for my acne filled skin and for cutting my hair short, and of course for my fat!)
Basically Indian society is stuck on the narrative of girls existing only for pleasing other people’s eyes. Not as individuals, with a mind and sense of humor but with a sense of inferiority about looks.
I look up to Deepika Padukone, Mayawati, Phoolan Devi, Nandita Das, Konkona Sensharma, Smita Patil, Beyonce, Maya Angelo, Michelle Obama, P V Sindhu. These are tremendous forces of nature known by their work, not their skin tones.
//It describes them, but does not define them.//
Let’s celebrate our bodies, skins and education and fitness.
Girls, we cannot expect society to change overnight nor the boys to start loving us as dark and fat.
It is on US GIRLS to start appreciating ourselves and our sisters irrespective of looks. And start loving our skin without the use of fairness and skin brightening creams.
“Your skin is not only brown
It shines and it tells your story” ~ Beyonce
© Harfkaar 29-12-2020
For @adithir and @bertha_beryl who are angels scolding me to write ;) #selfmusingsofj
I read somewhere the lines in //.//
Edit: My second POD. Check the other one #pod_of_j
Deeply grateful and equally surprised.
My Ninth WN repost check others at #wnrepost_of_j
All thanks to my sisters and friends here!!.
-
sugarwithspice
85w
Read More*They say money doesn’t grow on trees.
I say it does.
I say,
The root is evil,
And the branches greed.*
They say money doesn’t grow on trees;
I say it does.
When eve’s lips first touched the forbidden fruit in the gardens of eden,
I say she tasted money.
I say the human was a broke soul,
and the devil a bank teller.
I say she tasted power, felt greed, lost everything to gain status.
After all, isn’t that what money does to a human.
Doesn’t it embody greed in the rich,
Resentment in the poor
And the struggle of everyone in between?
They say money doesn’t grow on trees.
I say it does.
Anything is money if you sell it well, my mother says
I hope one day my words would promote my thoughts.
*My student textbooks define economics as society's way of managing scarce resources;
I define economics as bunch of human beings scavenging the scarce to reach supreme abundance*
We created a god in the image of ourselves:
A paper.
Something that was blank once,
but when written on
Something catastrophic
At the same time something of use.
A paper,
A human.
We placed it on a pedestal and now gravity is its myth
We gave it worth:
Paper.
Sometimes i wonder what would happen if we burn all the money in the world.
Would we find something of worth in ourselves,
Or will we burn away
Like the ashes of the cotton.
I heard someone say:
*Money is expensive.
Money comes at a cost.
The mind,
The body,
The soul,
from it all
those who sell their souls
never seem to get it back.*
We live in a world where a name grants you respect,
And what you show is the major judge of your character than what you have.
A world where the fortunate sells money for profit,
And where the poor thrives on it for their entertainment.
A world where virtue is an internet trend,
and all money does is make a murderer out of a friend.
Fact:
*The overworked is underpaid;
The underpaid is overstressed,
And the overstressed dies quick
Offering nothing but tears in his wills.*
I say money does grow on trees.
I say it is the fire accelerant in hell for the rich,
And sparks of warmth for the less fortunate.
Bartering and trading:
Paper for worth,
Value for soul,
We scramble,
And God laughs looking down
While we cut down his money trees.
Scattering around in eden
Killing and dying for a little shade.
BUT
If we place value upon ourselves;
If we mine the hidden treaures
when the goal matches the purpose,
A folly wish but maybe then
when we set aside what we have,
and pay attention to what we own.
Perhaps then we may make a difference
We may find a gem:
Worth.
When that day comes we’ll all be something of value:
Bills on leaves.
They say money doesn’t grow on trees.
I say it does.
I say,
Let the roots be the womb,
And the branches wisdom.
©sugarwithspice.
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A New Year's Wishlist
Bring us a new slate,
And we'll start writing new stories again.
With the taste of fresh chalk on our lips,
We'll set off to find a tale worth retelling,
A picture worth redrawing.
Bring us a new muse,
And we'll challenge mortality itself.
With our passion and colours,
We'll etch our beloved in streets, songs and seas.
An indelible time stamp of love.
Bring us a new cure,
And we'll hug a little tighter, kiss a little longer.
With empty vials, idle ventilators and ignored masks,
We'll deck the hallways and rooms,
And finally step outside freely.
Bring us a new dawn,
And with it, bring us a renewed soul.
We've been exhausted by the memories of the past,
And haunted by the fallen faces.
This new year, above all else,
Bring us some forgetfulness.
©gundeep_sahni -
eurusgrey
84w
Read MoreI am the golden dew
on the eyelashes
of an angel
or maybe a warrior,
what is the difference, anyway?
Dancing in the cold
like a ray of
sunshine in the fog
of January,
scattering warmth
and hope.
I am the scar
etched deep in the heart
of a little girl,
with freckles like
scattered stars
on a moonless night
and the burning sun
consuming her eyes;
mending wounds
instead of breaking dolls,
she peaked a little too early
and faded away
into poetry.
I am the smile,
beguiling and broken,
on the lips of a sailor
who has seen way many storms
than meant for a wanderer;
ruthless and fierce,
he has felt the wrath of the sea;
on nights he longed for home,
he sailed even further
and turned into a figher;
he still longs for home,
but he is lost way too deep
to remember
what it feels like anymore.
//I am the fallen leaf
of a forlorn autumn,
carrying sins and secrets
of all the seasons.//
©eurus
Thank you, Senpai.�� @writersnetwork
@mirakee woah. Kaafi Shukriya ❤
Thank you everyone for reading, heartfelt.♡.
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raghavendran
84w
How Long Will the Sky be Free?
Writersnetwork. Thanks for reposting my poem.
Extremely grateful to Mirakee for reposting this poem. It is surely an honour to me.
How Long Will the Sky be Free?
Countries claim as their own-
Countries democratic or the one's ruled by the Crown-
Lands, mountains, islands and rivers,
Draw borders and map them as theirs.
Territorial waters call for due respect,
No mercy a violator can expect,
No one can enter without permission,
There are laws for such a prohibition.
Likewise no one can enter another's airspace,
If he does, he has serious consequences to face,
The airspace of a country is its own,
Violator's aircraft to pieces will be blown.
We find that countries establish their right
To hold land, water and airspace, and to fight
If anyone dares to foolishly trespass
Ignoring the countries' stringent laws.
Countries are vying with each other
To colonize Mars,Venus and many other
Planets hovering in the ethereal sphere
And claim them as their own in the future near.
Thank god, free is the star-studded sky
On which no country has cast its covetous eye,
I shudder to think of the day
When countries will their claims lay.
Raghav R
03.01.2021
©raghavendran -
raika_
84w
Read MoreMonuments, centuries old
all tell tales of people,
kings, queens and slaves that lived
within majestic walls of
fame and torture;
the dungeons have seen
humans rot away alive
and those buried in beds
of white precious stone
have lived in gold pennies
and silver linings.
We walk on steps,
elephants laiden with royals
have walked upon!
Our heart races backwards in time,
mind runs into a pile of wonder
as fingers trace faded
art patterns on walls
and eyes gawk at portraits
of those who lived,
by those who lived.
When was art born?
Sometime, long before the lives
of those who painted, constructed and carved
stone into artifacts and hearts into stone.
Gardens extend as far as eyes reach
with harems on far ends of empires,
of all the empresses of one (great?) emperor.
History tells us a story,
wealth saw those,
who lived within castles
and not even health
saw those who
lived in mud houses
Pride brought down empires,
wars killed humanity and
selfishness ate up all the kings
and now we walk
amongst monuments,
that cry more than they speak,
tales of poisonous souls,
that even killed the snakes when bitten
and those with pure hearts
were murdered by swords.
And now we walk,
between worn out walls,
with a different poem in our head-
twisted and wrecked,
like our history.
-raika
@allbymyself @zohiii #rfav
@mirakee @writersnetwork @/everyonewhoreads as sang says, I'll consider this an early birthday present. Thankyou very much.
5/1/21©raika
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The depth of worthless
A night built on anticipation and I was set on seeing you,
scanning the room full of strangers faces in the pale lighted gloom
I met many on that night; many people with hope-filled lives,
there was nothing that comforted me when I didn't cross your eyes
It was disappointment wound up, constricting the walls of my heart,
what I would have done to greet you, but that support crumbled apart
I hate the way it ended with my words and your wordless,
so I sat with a vacant stare and understood the depth of worthless
No drink could ever soothe me, music couldn't reverse my curse
friendly voices felt way too short and I only felt worse
The night aged older and older and I knew it was no use,
everything I dished out in life came back in my own emotional abuse
I deserve what happened and I never saw you again
and this gaping hole within my soul daily expands and continually gradually deepens.
©bobbycneis -
laus_deo
84w
Read MoreLight leaks from the leaves of the
sugar apple trees after feasting on
fresh fruits and touches the morning
petrichor sungazing on the ground.
The holiday lights snore unapologetically
as the hustle and bustle of the busy
city is added as a preservative in the
jar of January juice being served on
the first Sunday of the calendar year.
Twenty minutes have already passed
in the hunting of the novel I left unread
on Pg 243 last night. I am wandering
helplessly in the woodland of my house
with arrows shooting from my eyes,
hitting on the kladeoscopic titles
resting on the bookshelf and weapons
oozing out of my hands, digging the
scattered clothes and littered table.
Giggles slice the silence in the air
and crash on my ears. I peep out of
the window in the garden to trace
the source of its origin.
Winter wearing blue sunglasses is
sunbathing while resting comfortably
on the chaise longue. Laughing hysterically
with joy, holding a hot mug of coffee
in one hand while other clutched on
the novel which was the treasure of
my hunt. I cannot calm the fury
down while screaming it's name.
©laus_deo
#nature_myeternalmuseWINTER'S LEISURE
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harshtaa_
85w
Read More@mirakee, @writersnetwork thank you for your kind reposts. I really haven't been writing for months and I don't know if this is really a dream. Thank you everyone for your very generous comments and reposts. This means a lot. ❤️��
I see mirrors,
A lot of them.
In the dead, the old, the decayed and the ones about to be deceased.
I see mirrors in poems I read about the little girl in the meadows in her little white frock, with golden locks hanging down her shoulders
The faint brown freckles on her face
Dancing with the wind on her toes
Like ballerinas she went to see last spring.
I see mirrors
In the old women I hear about,
Sleeping in her coffin, with her tranquility.
I walk past her huge door everyday
With the faded bijou letter plate, all brozed up with dust of mystery and the gold of love.
The wooden door to her tiny abode of remenisce, where she fondly slept on the couch in her last days.
For the king size bed her husband brought home
Has been lonely for 22 years of him bygone.
She swaps in the drapes and the sheets everyday, for him to sleep comfortably in her memories.
I see mirrors
In the old library where pretty faces
Take a bit of it with them in the photographs,
The old shelves with books of those whose bones might have been loamed soil by now,
Covered with webs of miniscule creatures and the shores they sank their feet in.
It's been just years they've espied sunlight and held hands
For those who come to read stand by the newspapers,
too old to remember and too weak to bend down for them.
I see mirrors,
In the houses near the shores
For it's walls have glimmered with french Margherita splashes on the fond nights
And have been scraped at times when the kids mastered to draw.
The gardens remember the young father teaching his baby boy how to peddle,
And now the birds pay their visit to the undomesticated feral grass.
The radio on the china table now, never announces victory
For the unrepaired gobs
Haven't touched a human since the boy wedded maturity.
I see mirrors,
In rocks and pebbles
In the old shoe on the road looking for it's lost mate and the forgetful maudlin owner.
The silver plates and the earthen pots,
The first line of the last page,
And the one you tore for a mistake.
Reflections everywhere.
Of owned and disowned of earned and Bribed.
Of yours and mine.
Of dead and dying,
Of everyday you wake up to near the last sunrise of this life
Maybe what comes from the origination, originate the origin
And you my friend would be earth one day, above it for a while.
©harshtaa_Of the dead and dying
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The Mask
Look! everybody has one
They said,
And thrust one in my hands;
I stood there befuddled
Maybe I needed one too.
It suffocated in the beginning,
I had no room to breathe.
Could never see faces fully,
I wondered how they looked.
I had to take it off,
Now and then,
If and when,
I longed for a whiff of fresh air.
Oh! But that was a long time ago.
It ain't that difficult to breathe now,
I've grown used to living with it.
People don't see my face anymore,
They'll never know if I cried or smiled.
Do we still look in the eyes,
And read those deep trenches of thoughts of the opposite minds?
That ain't the normal of today.
New norms,
New normal,
It feels like a part of my skin almost.
Vulnerability creeps underneath,
I'd feel exposed
If I had to take it off and show.
Been wearing it everyday,
And I wouldn't let the world know;
Too afraid to take that mask now.
©revathi_rangaprabu
