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  • poeticgirl 5d

    Dear Radhika,


    I honestly don't know how to thank you enough for always being there. You're one of the most beautiful persons I've came across on this platform who has supported me in my thick and thins. I love you and I love your words. You're the second most cutest person on earth xD. You know very well who's first (just kidding). Thank you for everything Radhika �� you>>>

    Here's a whatsoever. Ugh.

    To the girl with sunflowers in her eyes,

    You've crossed 19 sunflower fields
    And too many pink skies,
    You say you're a sucker?
    I draw a rainbow in agreement.
    You say you're a framework,
    Of brittle bones and scraped up skin,
    I erase a skyline in disagreement .
    You're a yellow skinned diva,
    A metaphor more pretty than dead.
    You're hope-notes to wilted sunflowers,
    And eulogy to pretty tragedy.
    You're not just a pretty sunset
    And not happiness labelled as grief.
    You're more than my words.
    Or failed poets can fathom.
    You aren't a broken smile.
    You're a autumn draped sunshine.
    And a 80's ciphertext,
    That takes more love, than courage, to comprehend
    You're a handful of happiness
    Or what they call as poems.


    #weekendc @sereiin
    @writersbay ��

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  • poeticgirl 1w

    I'm a carrier of a gypsy heart. I belong to a land of satin town draped in starry laces far from the garden suburbs. I've seen more than cotton candy clouds and silky skies from love songs. I'm breathing in rose-tinted aesthetics with each passing sunset. My smiles are the happiest shade of pink under the napalm skies . I belong to an era of forgotten folktales and and blue poetries. I've written us promises on seashells for more than a sea breeze's time. As May stops to caress my heart with nostalgia, I run past old autumns to embrace cheap fernwehs. I'm more than artistic bohemian among pandemic-scented lanes, I'm a july jamboree in the run. I was born among the fading constellations and I etch your name on the same. I'm a beatnik lover. I've painted wooden fences in hues of rainbow yet I don't long to live in my old sunburnt cottage . I'm seeking you in strangest of places. I'm falling in love under the blue sky. We're finding home in each others cherry-stained heartbreaks and cliché summer poems. I believe in loving you for another forever, in a different realm.


    ~M e g h a | To gypsy lovers


    #to_lovers #megwn

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  • poeticgirl 1w

    @galvanizedthoughts onek purano @onemayhem @sans_bornes @silverglitters


    17 boshonto jani,
    Piyal boner dhare par hoyeche tobe,
    Shishir bheja ghase,
    Tomate amate nai ba holo mil
    Nai ba sorot akashe kora aaki-buki.
    Nai ba elo sajher sonibaar,
    Nai ba holo dekha,
    Krishnochurar chaowaye.
    Tobu jeno,
    Nishar sheshe
    Aj o piyal boner dhare,
    Purnima r chand jedin purno na hoye roye,
    Jeno ami Krishnochurar kole,
    Holud pataye poddo likhi,
    Shajher shonibaare.
    Nahoye tumi ami,
    Amra holam onno ek aakashe,
    Tobu jeno piyal boner dhare,
    Shaajher sonibaare ektai gaan baje,
    Tumi ashbe bole,
    Pataye pataye golpo likhe rakhi,
    17 boshonto por aj o,
    Tumi robe, nirobe

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    Translation (not really though)


    17 springs near the Almondette forests,
    Near the dew-wet grass
    You and me couldn't fit in a tale,
    Neither could we paint the autumn sky,
    Neither did Saturdays arrive,
    Wrapped in eves, evenings;
    Neither did we meet under the gulmohar shade;
    Yet today,
    As the night leaves,
    Near the Almondette forest,
    When the full moon isn't quite full;
    Know that I lie in the lap of gulmohars,
    Writing poetries on yellow leaves,
    On saturday eve's
    So what if you and me
    Are us, under a different sky,
    Yet near the Almondette forest,
    There's a song that plays on Saturday eve,
    I write poetries on gulmohar leaves,
    Hoping you'd come someday,
    17 springs have passed,
    Yet you stay, tacit, unsaid....


    ©poeticgirl

  • poeticgirl 1w

    I want to runaway with you to a place where pink clouds would take us. I've blown away eyelashed wishes with the humid off-season winds. I'm falling in love with unfiltered smiles and weird candids. I wished for the skies to be mine for more than a Lifetime now. I'm looking for you in dormant love songs and Bukowski's love poems. I'm more than a careless art to you, I'm a masterpiece. I want to give away my weighing heartbreaks to the off-shore clouds. I've been fangirl-ing over ill-framed skylines and pressed flowers between 'Eleanor and Park'. You're everything that matters, there wasn't even a before and I don't even want to imagine an after. I want us to build a home together and paint the walls from the pastels of sunsets. I want you to hold my hand and bring me out of wildfires into a land of wildflowers. I've written your name with mine on hand-made papers, old tree barks and everywhere on my heart. I'm falling in love without drawing conclusions and assumptions. I'm falling in love with coffee stains on my skirt and oily braids and it's more than just a happy day. It's a happy era and we will runaway to a forever, together, forever. This isn't a dream, it's promise I've written on the daisy and sunflower buds that will bloom into a fairytale one day.

    ~M e g h a | To runaway lovers


    #to_lovers #megwn

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  • poeticgirl 1w

    I've been to warm countrysides and calm woodlands while August planned a getaway. There's more to the coffee skins and pale moccasins, there's joy there's peace and there's memories. Looking back I realise how stubborn I was to pluck wild fruits from the forbidden farms and feed it to the young sparrows. I've walked a hundred miles from timid grasslands and pastel meadows to a land of lost smiles. I'm falling in love with seasonal love stories. I've seen pink bougainvilleas and yellow apricots scattered on the skylines on easter sunset . They're brighter than the city lights, prettier than skyscrapers and tangled wires. I've filled my bell sleeves with vanilla dates proposals I'll make to the skies one day. I'm trodding on crisp maple leaves and peach ashes of yesterday who died a happy death giving birth to a newer today.

    You're a new town lad among shimmering landscapes and I stand on floral pastureland faraway from city dreams. I'm sticking daisies to your love letters and drawing cacographies on my left palm.

    But I'm falling in love beyond flowers and souls. I'm running away to a fairytale. I want to lie back on the lush green blankets and paint the sky in your favourite shade of blue. There's more to love than roses and butterflies. I'll count shooting stars and happy rainbows, hoping that our love outlives lovers and everything in this blue universe.

    ~M e g h a | To countryside lovers


    #picturec #to_lovers #megwn

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  • poeticgirl 2w

    17 sunflower fields later I believe growing up wouldn't have made sense without my Grandma's old folktales and seasonal goodbyes. It's almost like I've been reading too much of Oscar Wilde stories to fall for kind antagonists. My Childhood has been spent making paper planes out of aged newspaper telltaling Ma's palpable conversation with the local lady who bought all our old pitch boards and rotting papers. She would make her living out of my wasted drawing book and Baba's creased notepads. Occasionally she would tell ma that ma had been nurturing an artist in her womb for 9 months. Ma smiled as I drew another daisy on her pink saree.

    If you ask me to choose between the royal blue, aqua blue or navy blue, I'd choose neither because my heart belongs to the sky blue, the muse to my soul and the colour of my pale heart. My Grandma would say that we've bade more goodbyes than we know. And somehow I agree wholeheartedly. I believe I belong to a land to rosewoods and pine cones and another cosmos of creased heartbreaks. As the autumn takes over whispering crisp elegies to the wind chimes, they sing a song in a dialect only the offshore wind would know. The bakula leaves fall on the musty soil in a haphazard rhythm as if it's too stubborn to bid a farewell to the branches.

    I believe I've 3 October sunsets crammed inside my palms and 1 love story brewing with the pandemic-stained skies. I'm falling out of sad things to write about. As Grandma's folktales paint a vivid memoir , my canvass feels more than enough. Ma told me about 7 sins the other while she braided my hair and put young jasmines in between. I've walked past everything but anger. But someday this shall go away too. I'm walking into mint skies and periwinkles each day. I'm falling for patched happiness and wrinkled T-shirts.

    I will write a new story this time, a folklore about old friends and goodbyes who healed.




    ~M e g h a | To old folktales and happy goodbyes



    #goodbye #wod #megwn



    P.S - There's a tremendous rise in cases in my hometown and this despair vibe that has been bothering me lately. But today ma literally dragged me out of the bed because apparently after 2 months of incessant hoping and praying and bribing the deity I'm happy to report that two china rose bloomed in the newest sapling we planted! I believe it's high time we start blooming into a thousand smiles too.

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    I will write a new story this time, a folklore about old friends and goodbyes who healed.




    ~M e g h a | To old folktales and happy goodbyes
    ©poeticgirl

  • poeticgirl 3w

    There's a market near my hometown that reeks of roses and oranges from lost meadows and forgotten orchards. The sky there always looks kinder than the city's. Wildflowers bloom between cracks of the black soil, a stranger trod in his merry jest while humming cheap songs about love and loss. Vangogh's sky melts into my palm as thousands of poetries resurrecte from their demise. Skies are by far the most beautiful artist I've seen, creating art from mayhem. To hold the cosmos mutiny eternal times into his fond arms, skies are the kindest.

    Empty skylines behold the sky's secrets until poets capture them into their fallacious verses serenely. Have you ever witnessed the sunsets after a generous out pour of rains that washes away every perturbation stalling in our enigmatic minds? The sunset looks like a fresco of a myriad of colours on the wet canvas of the vintage blue welkins. A beauty beyond pragmatics and myths.

    A 90's style epoch gramophone hums a sad song that sinks into my chest, heavier than the weight hercules carried on his shoulder. My lover would be three heartbreaks late when he knocks at my door, or who knows maybe my gravestone? I want to be buried with smiles and euphoria brushing off agony from my shoulder. My poetries shall leave with me. I do not want to leave my hometown for the sake of blunt necessities of life. But if the skies leave, so shall I, so shall my words, so shall everything

    ~M e g h a


    P.S- I want to fall out of skies and malady to write about. Proses make me aloof,lost.


    #fresco #wod #megwn #skym


    @turquoise_stars 18 mins since I said soon XD

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  • poeticgirl 3w

    Lost abode


    Captivity scrapes the wall paint,
    As the white plaster steals a glance,
    Hands nurture the window pane,
    Trapping white clouds
    A ten by ten feet galaxy,
    Etched in muses
    Cognizance, oblivion, Cognizance an endless loop.
    A pause in my memory lane,
    As my chest sinks into yearnings, longings.

    /A board of crows,
    Swaying palm trees,
    A sky dotted with pink kites,
    Wires above my head,
    Cutting the welkins
    A mundane chaos from the neighbour
    A sunset I befriended once
    An epiphany crawling up my heart/

    What is the good in goodbyes?
    What is the fair in farewells?

    A kid walks into a concrete structure,
    A girl walks out of her house,
    She begs the clock to halt,
    She begs the locks to defy,
    Eternity passes sooner.
    She stands unfazed.

    The sixteen year old,
    Draws a map from her home to her new house,
    Nine blocks and twenty one sighs.
    Yet leaving takes courage.
    How do you get away from home?
    How do you embrace a house?

    ©poeticgirl

    #bagpack #wod #megwn

    I feel this.

    @writersnetwork Thank you ♡

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  • poeticgirl 3w

    Crockery chorus


    Eulogy to Sunday nights,
    Stuffed inside Monday morning pajamas,
    When breakfast conversations turn to accusations
    If my casserole could speak,
    It'd tell you how my stomach protests
    After each gulp
    Of maple syrup,
    For I'm a terrible juggler,
    Of food and anxiety together.
    And oh poor me,
    My casserole would lament
    For I intake too much of roughage,
    Except not from the green salad
    But from my mother's taunt.
    Everyday
    Every night.

    As I lick the last bit of bulletfree coffee,
    From the fancy cup,
    My mother asks if the caffeine would help,
    To fit me into 34-24-34,
    Ask my coffee cup,
    It'd tell you,
    How I've enlisted myself,
    Into a strict diet,
    Of self-doubt and malice
    My coffee cup has a brown stain,
    And it tells me, it's okay to be brown,
    And stained all over,
    And still love yourself.
    It's okay
    And I nod.

    28 years and the same spoon,
    If you ask her she would tell you all nice words
    She knows
    So today she mimicking my sister,
    'You're thick and lean at all wrong places'
    As I take my spoon between my lips,
    She reminds me revolt,
    And tell my sibling,
    I'm 28 and happy
    And paying my own bills,
    Size is a number,
    Skin tone is a colour,
    And not that I care
    But on days I'm a coward,
    I wish my crockery set could speak

    ©poeticgirl



    #kitchen #wod

    @piyuldwivedi wrote *sighs*

    I hate my username

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  • poeticgirl 6w

    Women are sunflowers from God's garden
    And maple twigs who refuse to break when trodden,
    But womanhood is poured in glasses of patriarchy,
    And drank by them,
    The owners of y chromosomes ,
    With pride in a merry jest.
    Last autumn my mother locked her lips
    (That was never really free from prejudice)
    With dry oaths of subduction.
    Autumn comes in flannel shirts
    And kisses her under her aanchal,
    Of marks from the stories,
    She refused to tell me.
    My father asks me to fly high,
    Win the skies,
    But be home by nine.
    Women issues.
    I can tell you he isn't a feminist,
    He wants me to change for the world,
    But does not want the world to change for me.
    At breakfast when the news flashes with rape cases,
    He asks to wear my skirt beyond my knees,
    But he himself refuses to look beyond myths.
    I tell him how God is a woman,
    And he nods,
    And We see Gods wearing wilted flowers
    Or machetes.
    My father is a religious man,
    He wears a thread across his chest
    And floats high on masculinity
    And discards feminists
    But he worships Kali to laksmi,
    But God is a woman? I ask
    He nods while he chants
    And women are sexualised?
    He shuts his eyes in a yes.
    But then isn't Kali sexualised?

    My father chokes.


    ©poeticgirl



    @thousand_splendid_thoughts because you asked.
    I don't like this
    #free because I managed to incorporate.

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