tough to read and tougher to comprehend. and its a perk? hell yeah it is.

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  • nightwriter_i 6w

    When you practice gratitude it makes you look at things in a better way. Leaves will rumble when the wind is gusty, wilted ones too. And who says that a dead leaf isn't beautiful. Grey is always associated with Gloomy mood, I have great reverence for people who have decoded what grey is. I have great reverence for people who are resilient. Not everyone can tolerate and not break, but you don't have to tolerate when you have a mouth to speak, you should. Anger, sadness won't subside if you won't treat it. Silence could be an antidote but the hurt won't fade if you won't talk about it. When the grey clouds gather up in the sky they protect you from heat, sometimes the drops are forgiveness for your sins, sometimes the drops sting like nudges from Scissorhands. Many of us are not what we tell others, we picturise how we want to be perceived by others. Many of us don't talk about how we were bad to others but won't stop for a minute if someone does the same. When you get happier, you forget these things. It's so liberating to forget things, to forget how people looked, how they sounded, how they had lit up your day once and how they ended up ruining you.

    As I have already said, a poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I will be a human again as I go back to have lunch and forget about what I had written.

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    God for minutes and devil for hours.

  • nightwriter_i 6w

    A poet is a poet only when he is writing a poem. I relay information to my senses and it captivates you all. My words are limited to places. A meaningless thought is still there roaming between the cortex and the stem but bytes don't affect the course of life, do they? A day could get gloomy if you keep your eyes moored on the tip of a leaf until when transpiration sucks out the green from it. But again you slouch like a slob and write about it infront of people you don't know. Things look under control when you aren't alone, but when you sit in a balcony filled with green you can't help but think of rain. Rain isn't a mystery under Science's lens, it spews out acid when it feels violated. Infact I am like a garbage box too, if you keep me full of shit, I stink. When the sky appears orange during sunset the heart is filled with a feeling of longing for something. That something is what people search, if they don't find it within themselves they look for others who have it. They curl themselves on the sofa and make imagination their muse. They paint it, they write about it. The girl on the sidelines of a dilapidated city surely looked pretty, she wore an orange maxi and her lips wore a fluttering anxiety. A photographer clicked her photos and vogue signed a contract. The essence of an incoming Diwali is seeping into the hearts of believers, we left a festival behind and Durga Ma crossed Ganga on a boat, supposedly. It poured down heavily on Vijayadashami, Ma paddled through the junks of the river, thinking about all that there is in the world. I smile a lot nowadays, and it makes me realise the importance of lips. When you kiss someone you exchange saliva, you exchange a desire, you exchange a tune of being in sync. It's a moment when your dwindling thoughts align.

    Just this for today, too much for writing, too much of sitting at a place and imagining.

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    Everything here is, Everything there was.

  • nightwriter_i 15w


    Comma, full stop, and hyphen
    went to a bar
    to seek merry.

    They approached semicolons
    with lemonades and bedtime talks.

    All giggled and laughed until a giant pen
    summoned them on a piece of paper,
    some joined hands
    some froze,
    the horror spoke
    in English,
    a love letter I suppose.

    They remain etched
    on a declaration of affection
    folded in square
    on the back pocket
    of denim.


  • nightwriter_i 21w

    A heatwave from the south.
    North didn't feel like it.

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    Sitting on a mound of words, with clenched fists,
    There's a hint of aggression in every word whispered,
    The bedsheets are creased and a gloomy silence is overlooking a fine morning.

    Pillow covers tend to strip down after last night's dream.
    A kiss, a hump, and a wet bump.

    Channels and funnels smoke
    cigarettes with sleepy eyes
    telling me if you are in at once
    there's no outside.


  • nightwriter_i 22w


    We are mortals, we don't have much time on this planet. If you have got problem with someone go talk to them instead of searching for posts that support your cause. Life is already too complicated, make it simple for yourself, yeah?

    A thought after watching 50/50 last night.

    My feed looks more like a rant field now. *sighs*
    But who cares? As long as I am in company of talented people like you all, it's all gains and nothing to lose.

    (Day X of not sounding too idealistic)


  • nightwriter_i 26w

    May 29th, 12:29 AM

    I am thinking and I like it. Still a guy stuck in the oral traditions. To be understood is a relief but I don't write to get some eyes moored at my perceptions.

    Don't know which part of content and operations gave this product.

    I don't provide any sort of description for my poems because I don't like people knowing what exactly I want to convey, on the top of that, it's always better to read a poem and make it yours.

    Been thinking, and it's not new.

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    Onto a crack

    On the Broadway,
    in the midst of beautiful buttcracks
    one's my favourite
    the one I haven't touched yet
    it's the one that's far away
    behind bushes and a lattice
    under a well woven mattress.

    It has got zits on its cheeks
    and it shrinks when it sits
    Smells like a flower when in love
    A long lasting snuff.


  • nightwriter_i 27w

    25th May, 9:12 AM

    My course's proctor died of Covid today. He had a wide smile on his face when I last saw him. It's a personal loss, every death feels like a personal loss.

    I hope we don't get used to seeing people die because something dies within, when you see a departing smile.

    We consider it an etiquette to smile before closing a door or to look sad because we don't want to leave.

    Is it necessary to repent while the door is closing? Why don't we repent while we are standing at the frontier and there is still some time left?

    Everything becomes nothing one day so make sure you don't choose a predestined end and die many times.

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    I am afraid of those who are always late to apologise.


  • nightwriter_i 28w

    May 20th, 3:39 A.M

    First time in a while that I am awake, I sleep in moderation everyday and that would be the least I could do for myself.

    Something's different today, I scratched my Iron Will twice and felt like crumbling down.

    Life's hard when you can't drop down your tonnage. I have a cousin who lives alone, he visits the terrace right after the sun hits the horizon, walks with a weird gait, looks to and fro and whisk away his shoulders in the direction of the wind. I sit at one corner either reading an eBook or listening to Ghazals, that's what peace is all about for now.

    Today he approached me, we talked for a while about how Covid is going to take away 30% of the world's population. We have got different ideologies, so we smirk at each other whenever we reach a disagreement.

    Silence is normal after a conversation ends, you get to think and decide if you want to talk more. Surprisingly, he said something unusual for men don't talk about feelings, normally.

    "Yaaar, I got over the past you know, I got over them particularly"


    "I just don't think about them anymore"

    This irked me a bit, but what I sensed was worthwhile. I try to think of all the miniscule sensations possible and sometimes it's not stressful at all.

    While we were talking, he received a phone call from Sambalpur
    He reached for his phone, tapped on the screen and I could see a woman carrying a child close to her breasts.

    We looked at each other and smiled.

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    I envy the clouds being so free


  • nightwriter_i 33w

    When I won't be able to write
    I'll write about not being able to write.

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    If I tell you that I admire, would you not use me to fight your demons?

    I don't know for how long my desires would boil down on a piece of paper
    Starting on a curve
    Ending with a dot.

    The city passes past my eyes
    in a whiff
    Just to stop and look at you
    but just to look at you
    and nothing more.

    For what is present
    Might be future too
    but who knows?

    Smile departs at the curve
    of this road.
    A step towards is a step away.

    If I tell you that I admire, and if you admire me too, would you not use me to fight yourself?

    I don't know for how long my desires
    would boil down as words
    And just as words.


  • nightwriter_i 39w

    We will have a drink or two and we will go to your house.

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    Once more it'd be right to seal illogic with a kiss,
    Hot hands in cool fingers
    Smooth legs striding on easy in linen and silk.

    Tongue leaves a trail
    For the eyes to follow
    I touch creases that hanks
    on either side of your mellow

    You open your bra and
    your nipples graze vaguely
    on the dry contours of my lips,
    turning them pale.

    I waded in and smooched your skin
    to look up and see what thrill was
    to look up and see your face.