parthavi_

she gathered books, like clouds, and words poured down like rain ~the book thief

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  • parthavi_ 5d

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  • parthavi_ 1w

    Sometimes,
    she is like the daisies,
    fresh and white
    with a blush of yellow.

    Sometimes,
    he is a Black dahlia,
    dark looking and mysterious
    blooming with pride.

    Sometimes,
    she is like the gulmohar,
    leaking with the red
    wine of existence.

    Sometimes,
    he is the aster,
    that lives in many colours
    and smiles at lives.

    At the end,
    they are all flowers,
    and they are all beautiful.

  • parthavi_ 3w

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  • parthavi_ 4w

    #if #wod
    @writersnetwork thank you for the surprise ❤️

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  • parthavi_ 5w

    The tints of blues
    paint the canvases
    of my mind.
    The pallets of
    my brain splash
    colours that I love
    over the skies
    that live within
    them, the daisies
    are draped with
    the blues that I
    love, the sea
    a vast mirror
    for the heaven above,
    the stars closer
    than ever, and the
    shores bathing
    under the rain,
    the tears of those
    weeping clouds.
    The colours,
    ringing with the
    blooming whistles,
    of my heart,
    they dance and
    smile and paint
    my mind with
    the tints and
    shades of bliss.
    ________________
    #colour @writersnetwork @mirakee
    @darkerthanblack @odysseus

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  • parthavi_ 6w

    The paints
    were still laden
    on the creaking
    stool, when I came
    back from his
    funeral.
    The canvas on
    the easel was
    splashed with red
    paint that reflected
    pain. It reflected
    the point in time
    when his hand
    slipped, life sucked
    out of it.
    And yet the poor
    man had held
    the stars in
    his hand and
    stuck them to
    the sky, right
    until the sun rose
    and never set again.
    _________________________________________________

    Metaphors~
    Stars: paint brush
    Sky: canvas

    The sun rising and it's never setting again signifies that the canvas of his night sky that he had painted on had gone, the scene had changed, and it stayed the same forever, because he died. That is, the sunrise depicts his death, and says that death is not all dark, that he died but still didn't. He'll always remain, like the sun.

    @writersnetwork @mirakee

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  • parthavi_ 6w

    No idea why I would do this.. but I'm in love.
    With art, it's beauty, and life.

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    In the life of a painter, death might
    not be the most difficult thing.
    For myself, I declare I don't know
    anything about it. But, the sight of
    the stars always makes me dream.
    Why I say to myself should those
    spots of light in the firmament be i
    naccessible to us? May be we can
    take death to go to a star, and to die
    peacefully of old age would be to go
    there on foot. For the moment I'm
    going to go to bed because it's late,
    and I wish you goodnight and
    good luck with a handshake.

    Your loving
    Vincent.

  • parthavi_ 12w

    36 all out.
    The world howling at the inefficiency of Indian cricket.
    Then a man comes and puts 100 runs on the board. The man who was but once draped with doubts.
    A plethora of injuries. The experience, gone. Half of the team onto treatment. The baton of will in the hands of young souls.
    A man with a dislocated thumb putting his country in a good position. And yet again ready with pads on and injecting himself so that he can still play for the tricolour. A man of courage.
    A team whose fortunes were already decided, a team who was declared to loose.
    But a man came, a spark in him, could not make a 100, but the 97 was all his team needed.
    Two men, one with a torn hamstring, another with a tweaking back and the threatening thud of a ball on his ribs. They sailed. Their ships were but built of unknown bravery that the storm could never destroy. Strong. Fearless. Proud. They couldn't win, but who needs a win in front of the valour they showed?
    A team of passion. A team who never believed that the sun is gone forever. A team in a position of loss.
    But again two men. Souls of the Indian soil. Playing their first game. The love. The truth of what's at stake. They fight again. And again. And what they do is just enough of a win.
    A man with tears as he eyed the satin flag of his nation, a memory of his father, the sound of jana gana mana whistling in the breeze. A warrior. A saviour. A person with the ball raised in his hands. And a beautiful hug.
    A young beaming man. Amongst so many. Tried. Tried. Always helped. Kept helping. Kept playing. His home on the ground, the king in blue. A 91. Again no 100. Bliss comes from pain sometimes, doesn't it?
    Then the wall. The wall stands upright in the middle of the green land. He gets hurt. But he plays long. He helps the team. Does a 56. And then he departs.
    But we always have the one with a 97. Cometh the need, there comes the man. The man of steel. He stands upright on the foreign land, fighting for his motherland. He thrives on his power. The might. The strength. The beauty. He wins. The match. And billions of hearts.

    Through the journey. Through the pain. The injuries. The bruises.
    Broken. But never shattered. Alive with strength unknown. The win. The passion. The depth. The love. The unity. The sport. The tricolour, swaying with pride, in the vastness of the sky.
    A series to remember for all living memory.
    A story to love.
    ����


    #cricket #india #indvsaus
    Pretty sure so many aren't even going to read.. but you know.. :)

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  • parthavi_ 14w

    The F I R E in his mind bellowed with the flames of his longing. He just wanted. And wanted. He hadn't wanted much, though. Just her all soothing lap upon which lay his burdened head. It felt heavy. So heavy. He missed her. He craved for the stroke of her feather palm. Her hug. It was all enough.

    But his father had plans. His father had a shard of I C E. The shard was thick, strong, sharp. Until it was painted with blood. His father's shard killed his mother.

    It was still there, the shard. In a prime corner, a memoir. He remembered how it had happened. How his mother had weeped. Until she couldn't. Her eyes were last open, draped with strength right upto the end, till they were alive.
    Then they lay open without seeing.

    He took the memoir. Went to his father.
    The blood on the memoir darkened. Once.
    And then again one more time. He stabbed his father twice. And then he stabbed the memory of his mother. In his heart. Right into his heart.

    At the end, they were all gone.
    Fire and ice, make water.

    @writersnetwork #fireandice #opposites
    @udit94 @my_cup_of_poetry @darkerthanblack @odysseus

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  • parthavi_ 14w

    @writersnetwork @mirakee
    @my_cup_of_poetry @thewordplayer @shaiz_fs @darkerthanblack @odysseus

    Augustus (Gus) and Hazel are the characters of the book 'The Fault in our Stars'.
    They fall in love. Augustus dies.

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    Yesterday,
    I was a blue aster that bloomed with the water of your love and withered in the same water which was now but the grief of your loss.
    The petals scattered over the ground and promised not to bloom again.

    Today,
    I am the elevated strokes of acrylic on the painting that was made with the brush, whose bristles were my searching eyes, that were perched on the stick of your warm ones. The strokes of handsome blues and pinks faded into ugly sad colours. The colours crippled.
    How could they stay alive when the brush that coloured them was no more.

    Tomorrow,
    I will be the sky to your land. I will shimmer in the jewels that you would admire and my life would be that of yours. I will take breaths that would grant life to you. But soon those breaths would die and collapse into an inferno that would swallow the whole world.
    How will the sky give life when there won't be land?
    .
    .
    I would be the reluctant fire, transforming, but never extinguishing. I'll search for you, and find you. The wind of my being would wander in search for the bloom of your heart.
    You'll end. I will end too.
    And yet we'll find us again.

    Even after the unknown kills us.
    Even after we have to unite infinitely.
    Even if our forever never lasts.

    //You will always remain the Gus to my Hazel//