Miraquill
It's Okay
There's a sun
and he ain't on fire
because of me
but gleams enough
to send me a ray.
There's a march
and they aren't alive
ample to sail through
but they form a queue
which spares me some space.
There's a montessori
and it ain't aging
along with the banayan tree
but this spectrum of time
is the necessary reality check.
There's a distinction
and it isn't the differences
that marks the silhouette
but shades sufficiently well
to shape my identity.
There's a risk
and i ain't taking it
after risking it all
but it does reminds me
of unseen sides of phantom.
There's a creator
and he isn't procreating
after his human edition
but it helps my intert state
as we are running out of ideas.
©pa_luck
pa_luck
I don't tend to change this often !!
-
pa_luck
3d
Read MoreThere's a reason
and it isn't me
that brings him a smile
but it's enough
for me to have one.
#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#miraquill#pod -
pa_luck
1w
Read More
It's not always concentrated when it's less !
#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#pod#miraquillLessening
When I'm doing nothing
I'm already climbing down an uphill
with a bucket splashing out
its lean division of possibilities.
Doing anything more accounts
for the bucket handle tear
and a tumbling Humpty Dumpty fall.
Now you either blame my weight
or my heavy orbs popping up
for draining the settled stones along
ruining the remains under a shadow.
What walks past this
is a shaking skeleton
with daunting disbelief
of losing the broken bucket.
This weightlessness feels sick
left unmonitored for itself
to haunt the belonging holes
that might be a home for termites.
©pa_luck -
pa_luck
4w
Read More
Why ain't the subconscious self,
placed between "Quotation Marks"
#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#miraquill#podRetakes
Mistakes are usual and often.
"I have been sick head of short..
you know what."
Oh there, i committed another one.
"I have been answering them,
the small pockets in my head."
In a pattern
the pulse changes
and still strives to become the same.
But mistakes are usual and often.
"I do that habitually
and I'm a habit."
I never can save my roots
from my slobber
and wish for a decent fruit
that serves all.
I keep chewing the straws,
but no amount of starch
ever satisfies me.
But mistakes, you see are usual and often.
"whenever i try to fix it for myself,
i break it for them."
I tend to change my waters,
so that nothing settles
in a sediment.
And there you see
a chance to remind me,
it wasn't right in the first place.
Mistakes, mistakes are usual and often.
"Mmm..i guess once you hear me out,
I'll be mistaken."
It's all correct and clear
in my mind
but a clutter on a call
to subconscious self.
"Improvising the mistake,
makes another one."
Mistakes,
"Now, don't you dare call it life."
©pa_luck -
ek arse baad yakeen aya
aya naa tu to yakeen aya
jo naa hone ka malaal
hone par nahi hota
uske hone par bhi
yakeen nahi aya !
©pa_luck -
pa_luck
8w
Read More
How do you describe,
Belonging to someone as !
#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#mirakee#podI Have You
A velcro venture pricking
and sticking the same roots
shutting the screams on laying.
A zipper locking into bridges
sitting on cross legged chains
jutting the jittery jargons.
A bandage on field of fiddle
clapping the oppositions chest
ironing the dead space of dirt.
A tape turned and twisted
into a climber on crawl
surrounded by something taut.
A buttoned hole hooked
tucked into sheets on show
a perfect projection of premise.
A grip on ground of battles
tagging the javelin on throw
while the digging dwells deeper.
A gum ball on fabric wall
badging a bribe for resting
for the rest of its perpetuity.
©pa_luck -
pa_luck
8w
Read More
What if love wasn't desperate enough to live,
humanity would have taken over the ashes !
#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#mirakee#podDisgust of Desperation
The sanity seems skippable
pushing prudence for paroles
rummaging through the eclipses
and halos won't suffice.
A hat drops while bending over
exposed creases, evacuated clefts
drooling saliva through clenched teeth
stating satiation of wiping off the rest.
An itch, out of reach
and nails growing inwards
a transitory taste teases
the tongue licking the losses.
Subletting spaces
tied to the outlines
overhearing the smoke
missteping over flint stones.
A spur that hooks the flying skirt
a reminder of being held before
a flag of narrow escape
that just counts as a breather.
A respite of rebounds
over a base of bubbles
scraping the sniffs
in a boulevard of breathlessness.
A skip over line of resistance
a rescue from, a remedy for
a puzzled puddle of ballots
nothing stays if not caught today.
©pa_luck -
pa_luck
9w
Read More
As a cat I know, how it feels to be human !
(Astrophe- The feeling of being stuck on earth)
#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#miraquill#podCat-astrophe
I lost my tail to humans
for a better reason than humanity
for being a bridge, a layover
from steady steps to stilletos.
I tuned my reflexes to zero
in line with subtle and sublime gestures
and now i walk down the ramp
holding the jaw drops straight.
I tamed my temper as smirks
while talking was always a task
a smile before a danger
a laughter after committing the crime.
I preserved my paws from paints
for a watch away from one
which homos never realised
how trails lead to terrors.
I saved my skittish innocence
to be shared through a spyhole
showered on like a darling
taken back as the mistress.
I gave up my fluidity for fools
and sat back on my spine
watching them adapt me
while i passed through their phases.
©pa_luck -
pa_luck
10w
Read More
A docile dog
a customary chain
the penance is preordained !
#rich#poor
#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#miraquill#podThe Plentiful, they penniless !
Some curse the seeds,
of the luscious watermelon,
that robs the palate,
of a sumptuous serendipity.
Some don't even care,
of planting seeds,
sleeping by the roadside,
with their women,
whose water breaks,
like a routine without restrictions.
An umbrella that looks out of
stained sunglasses under summer
covers the clothes and cakes
with candles that merge with time.
Another umbrella stands in the soil
turning water into water sheds
a home under shadow of its window
saving his earth from draught of showers.
Some are always short of wardrobes,
for workaround of their waste,
they curse the occasions,
which makes them redundant.
Some don the rags,
covering their tattered wisdom,
they wait for the occasions,
which patchwork their pride.
A dip on the pulchritudinous pinks
as a pimple scores all the attention
a lighter shade of life they lust
while the rust never meets their skin.
A peeling piping red they sweat
which dyes their death into life
that flows like the leaking roof
while they keep wiping the dribble.
©pa_luck -
pa_luck
11w
Read More
Read it off, Tear it off.
It wasn't meant to be written.
#writersnetwork#readwriteunite#mirakee#podLearned by heart, Love !
Love was the front bencher
yours faithfully for-ever
devotee on a pedestal
sleepless sound of helplessness
regardless of reminiscences.
A static story of success
untill shaken up by a paper plane
that casually patted its patency
questioning a black hole behind.
The empty empathic class room
with no seats following its back
shuddered it, of its short sightedness,
of fighting it all against self.
Love was the ideal student
yours sincerely since ages
too obedient about the obvious
too cautious about the conviction
but with no plan B in its syllabus.
An austerity practiced for perseverance
the supposed cupid vector
unidirectional and unidimensional
the sacramental statement of its fairness.
A vow like a vaccination
presumes a guard against
any external affair beyond the fence
once taken, once broken.
©pa_luck -
mujhe mere kal par
bas etna bharosa hai,
ki mere beete kal ka bharam
aaj bhi zinda hai !
©pa_luck
-
Singeing
There! I broke another beautiful clockwork. Carefully braided its loose ends and suspended that ticking timebomb in thin air by its wiry hands meekly threatening to snap. Then swung it, slow at first, increasing the momentum ever so slightly, till the chirpy cuckoo bird finally struck the wall, smashed its teeth and flew away, for good.
It's best it never realizes, my tiny, feathered friend, how pure hurt can sometimes be the help we need, to tear out of complacency, allowing that tender growth to emerge. Even as I winced to watch it writhe in pain, I was aware it wasn't entirely meaningless or selfish. That sharp stab of pain should scare it enough to flap its way back into the wilderness, embracing the uncertain thrill of freedom and fearful of the certain monotony of captivity.
I must admit, I felt sorry to let go of the little song bird that sweetly sung in my dark room, but its spirit is happier, serenading, perched on the wild cherry tree in the lowland woods, than be sprung by a metallic noose, not on its neck, but at its feet.
That's how slow danger works, isn't it? An imminent hazard and we run for our lives, but an impending doom, and we sleep walk towards it on our own volition.
And so I broke the lil birdie with just enough pain, to wake it up before it fell off some cliff. For, endings create new beginnings, sometimes for ourselves, sometimes for others.
-faha -
Smell of an oily omelette & sandwich that'll grill my insides in a while travels from that dim lit tiny kitchen to my red nose carrying few sneezes with it slips under the blanket who's been under the weather with me.
It slips inside from the left and move around my silky strands sniffing my skin skipping the satin robe.And somedays it slips inside from the right & sit still without moving an inch until it scares the smell of warmth that he left of me after a flirty night.
It stays with my runny nose and terrible headaches. The smell of breakfast settles on my tongue long before the taste makes it alive.
©dusky_dawn -
one keeps rewriting over
empty spaces,
feels clogged,
and asks -
how sincere
were the tears that I shed,
and if
they would be generous enough to
return and revive
whatever grief they held this long?
if the abyss I slip into
as soon as I close my eyes
is a lure to the bereft blues
and
whether lullabies
are curses or prayers?
what is this exhaustion
that won't let me turn this
tap off?
what is this exhaustion
that won't let me scramble
up words enough to let
you know that I don't belong,
here or anywhere?
do I have any other phrases
other than these battered
beratings about these hovels
where even the devils won't
sit next to this hellfire
gone cold,
and
if I will ever be able to
reach the gallows
for my execution,
or will there be
another case of
self-homicide?
©artsy -
Salty
There's an ocean,
and there's a teaspoon, for an oar
with me wandering
still wasting by it's shore
There's a cute boy
with a surfboard by the bay,
who left a smile, coy
and went smashing down the wave.
There's an old friend
in a French ship by the ken,
drifts abandoned,
and keeps up bobbing, now and then.
There's a great thirst,
and sheets of water, but can't be quenched,
I built a fortress,
with the teaspoon, and now I'm trenched.
-faha -
Fly-by-night
Laugh all you can
This night is pan dead
The leaves rustle and rub
On graves they fall and club
A friction pervades in the breeze
No one hears no one
even though the moon screeches
in the so-called celebration of love.
Know that it's been faltered
on the verge of a fall
To save yourself
from this cycle
of waning and bloom
will you draw the curtains
Or will you caress the gloom?
Laugh all you can
till the moon symbolises you
for when the morning grows
you'd be defeated
in your own wars.
©_transient -
tamanna3
3w
Read Moreᴄʜᴀᴏᴛɪᴄ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ
It's been so long
I'm almost tempted
to call it, a forever.
There's an uneasiness
seated on my throat,
I try to cough it away
but it stays,
like an aftermath
of grief dumping,
but I don't spit out facts.
In fact, I'm getting better
at swallowing chaos,
sandwiched between
two hands of peace.
It's getting colder,
with a lethargic November
slowly crawling
into my sleeves.
I try snuggling against
lessons learnt
from last winter,
but its rough fabric
struggles to keep me warm.
My mother says,
her skin is more
sensitive than mine;
I wish I could tell her,
It isn't always
about rashes or
natural remedies,
sometimes winter
just hits harder
on one person
of the same side.
©tamanna3.
-
myrrhc
2w
Read More"cherry blossoms fall like rain here in spring."
-josee (josee, the tiger and the fish).
i think. there must be something wrong with the sky. yesterday, it had bits of itself smothered into sunlight—no clouds or birds or dust. the usual way it feels to weigh suffocation and dispersion. rain is something that hugs you as well, no different than air, but i am afraid its embrace is something one doesn't find enough. splashes from the same sea, drying up on shoelaces as one looks for the river. you are on loose matter that is stifling you around. one way or another, it made me feel like it's a curtain. this world is no more or less a window, and the sky is a curtain hiding the rest of the solar system's domain. maybe because space is an accomplice to time and thoughts and light and all things that spark oblivion. they are hiding astonishments from an i who doesn't think she's worthy. perhaps my embrace has become as warm as the sun these days; my words have grown as dispersed as cherry blossoms. maybe that's why one prefers rain.
©myrrhc
thank you so much. *curtseys*.
@writersnetwork @writersbay.
-
Colourless stream,
lonesome eyes,
dark hair,
darker cries.
He moves away,
seeing the sadness come alive
and blinking,
the monsters can be seen from a far,
far and deep,
close and under,
he runs away,
from my shadows,
the darker ones,
he closes his eyes,
keeps them closed,
the birds in me keep singing for him,
but
he has his own songs and everything,
he runs and runs, the farther he goes,
he finds his wings, like a rare bird
he tries and flies away, resting on trees,
greeting birds and flowers,
rare nights remind him
of a colourless stream,
he loses a moment and then flies away,
away in his own peace. -
writeweird
4w
Atlases
the ripe winds
perch upon the threads of
western disturbance
trading through the
vastness of liquid turmoil
flowing and cutting
across the narrowest
of vengeance
that has laid upon
this land flourishing
under a disguise:
of mere nothingness and
certain similarity;
for who knows
what converses with the
frigid north
and talks to the
passes of the mighty
peaks of middle Asia
walking past the grandeur
of the Himalayas, and it's
many ancient towns
where no other
has been of any importance
whatsoever
there in the sweet solace
of solitude and crisp sunrises
i find myself dreaming
of the tranquil winds, and
ancient passageways:
far from Nazareth and
the cradle of men
where the old brick
roads now sleep in dusk
and there's nothing
left to conquer
built upon the spectacular
-- on this olden earth
i find myself yearning
for little things.
©writeweird -
ak_anjali_daydreamzz
3w
Read More#myth #getinc
All Rights Reserved
4 Nov 2021 5.25 pm
#ak_wn_repost #ak_pod
I made up myths and I'm going nuts
Anyway HAPPY DIWALI everyone ����
Thank you so much ��@writersnetwork made me happy !
THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR POD �� @miraquill Love ��
Whoa so unexpected and made me super duper happy !!
Sending Love and Light to everyone, Keep Inking ♡(●♡∀♡)Spring is a Poetic Utopia
And the womb of Gaia yearned for light
that stretch longer, post buried-off frore
In anticipation of gleaming komorebi
her heart pumped purple prismatic to
white wintry drops of nepenthe
While galestorms were sashaying slowly
to tumultuous cloudscapes,
from the womb comes crocus flowers
with the hope that spring is nigh
Then her daydreams becomes snowdrops
to welcome susurrus syllables
as a shield to storms
Soon snowtides recede and carpets of caespes
covers the crust nurturing the womb
for flourishing future of flora
Her pride and peace became hyancinth
to allure Apollo, of which
violescent veils convey forgiveness
Her spirit accompanies lost souls to heaven
with budding iridescent irises,
a sweven of rainbow
And it's time for the yellow trumpets
to adorn the solitude of spring,
when the bellwether of zephyr leads Narcissus
to tail echo only to end up drooping
into the shimmering silhouettes of self-love,
later to reborn as daffodils
Her love was a poignant poem
lured onto thorns by mountebanks,
her heart bled crimson cries and
grew rosebeds to waft fragrance of true love
Her perseverance thrived as peonies
on the crown of floral carpets,
lending spells of longevity to lorn hearts
Her notions became the necklace of blossoms,
golden showers of chrysanthemum
with magnetic spells of melody
Her voracious desires became vivid dreams
in vibgyor hues to give birth to orchids all over
like an ornament of oath
Her zest and zeal became beauteous anemones,
petals of which cradle folklores in flamedrops
Her reveries and remembrance blooms carnations
in chromatic colors, her offerings in achromatic
and her reminiscences as pink-eyed petals
Her metaphors weren't immortal but moribund,
they coiled until their casket and their
undying love blossomed to bulbs of tulips
Her adoration and admiration for luminosity
sowed seeds of sacrilege and reaped helianthus,
whose gaze glides across the welkin tailing Helios
At last when vespertine vapors swallow the day,
her tears become leal lexicons rooted in abbysal arcs
and turns into mellitus lotus and mazarine waterlily
// Spring triumphs as Lumina oscillates Terra
Osculant and oracling odes of flowerets
Serving an Utopian dream of a poet
~ Mayhaps,
Spring is a Poetry Penned in Pollen //
©ak_anjali_daydreamzz
