prachii_

Judge your opinions by how it was made, not only how it turned out to be!

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  • prachii_ 7w

    I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
    ~Edgar Allen Poe

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    Bleak

    On the edge I stand,
    counting my sins and sorrows
    that choke my dreams
    and curse my screams.

    I opened my granny's case,
    found some Polaroid shots,
    howling like a kid so thrilled,
    with free shoulders
    and no sand to slip,
    but to make castles outta it.

    I wear my stilettos in pride,
    to flaunt and flaunt and flaunt,
    and the blister awaits,
    to taunt and taunt and taunt,
    teaching me the ways,
    to carry heels in public
    and then in hands.

    Fears made me strong
    but not anymore,
    when dolphins wander,
    all I see is sharks flounder.

    What appeared good
    is no more the best.
    What appeared bad,
    is now the worst.
    Is now the worst.
    is now the worst.

    ©prachii_

  • prachii_ 8w

    Jesus, save me from perfection!

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    Go, take the elixir.

    Which one would you take? A Virgin Mojito or a plain coke? Mojito sounds cool, isn't it? Atleast for me then. I remember the very first time when I pronounced mojito as mo-ji-to and not mo-hee-toh. Big deal. English is complicated. So is our perceptions about perfections. I remember that fucking moment which made me feel eggs on my face. Eggs, tomatoes and what not! The reason stands obdurate. Someone out there gave me a judgemental look.

    A simple thought of looks or body sends shivers down my spine. It's a disease which cannot be cured by any medicine, but a person's approval, who you see as a perfect figure. I have seen many girls in my school who used to die to be friends with a girl who had boys drooling over her. Girls got bullied. Cried a little. repeated the same thing. And the cycle continues.

    Get yourself a pair of fishy eyes with no vision, smooth lips with no smiles and ears of symmetry with zero sound entering for help. Sit like an idle and think about your appearance. Perfect. Then judge others and make them the way you are, the way you define perfection and make this world look flawless, with full of flaws.

    Why do we need the faux endorsement of a faux person? Just because we are not full on our own? We go through many plastic surgeries just to receive a plastic sexual gratification. Stitches on stitches to make our nose stand up in pride and yet, it refuses. Your whimsical desire is a slain.

    Accept yourself that you have a body with stages and a face that ages.

    I know, that you become sad, go wild and feel like killing the person who did not stamp the approval of your beauty. You work. You leave your supper on the dining tables. And voila! You're done! You're up to their mark and you'll be the idol who judges someone on the basis of their colours, curves and what not. Crap!

    Why can't you be a person with zero objections and a platter full of defiance?

    ©prachii_

  • prachii_ 10w

    A lovely throne of diamonds,
    with sable spread on it,
    made to look graphite by choice

    of people who contribute
    in the ballots of desire,

    just based on
    some glitter of lies
    and drink of truths!

    ©prachi

  • prachii_ 12w

    Take none

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    and I want to take none if I could,
    coz both take me to the world so blind,
    where life is a myth made by mankind
    and I finally take the one in normality
    apart from the faux obsessed society.

    All the fame and limelight,
    and a junk-filled beautiful kyte,
    with a starter of fancy lies,
    that people today proudly disguise
    and I finally took the road aflame
    which is left by people acclaimed.

    The television so wide,
    where lies and truths equally confide
    Who's left without playing victim card,
    and a mere attempt to make fellows retard
    so I finally move to a place aloof,
    where no more dogs are left to woof.

    But the world moves on,
    differentiating white and bronn,
    where jealousy is a word
    that's all over heard.
    So this time, I walk on roads so smooth,
    where hate is no more sprinkled on vermouth.

    ~Prachi

  • prachii_ 13w

    Botticelli's Venus- There's a painter named "Sandro Botticelli" who painted "Birth of Venus", where the Goddess is standing on a scallop shell and depicts beauty arriving on land.

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    Picture Perfect

    Fair, dusky, dark!
    Layers of filters,
    wares of knots.

    The lighter the tone,
    the bosting I am.
    Loads of turmeric for
    the D-day coming soon,
    like a cake is festooned,
    with fondants and berries,
    to get slayed with hands so pure.

    Pear, hourglass, round!
    Types of shape,
    hypes of bootleg.

    The smoother the curve,
    the pleasing I am.
    When corset hugs me tightly,
    vultures make a brake,
    and set me higher on pedestal
    where I am measured
    by an ugly scale for beauty

    I am drenched in rage,
    with insecurities dancing around,
    this society advised me
    to not look pretty
    and also look pretty
    at the very same second.
    How am I supposed to do that?
    I may attract peeps. Oops!

    My mails filled with tips,
    on how to rock summers
    and make the people drool,
    with white face, pink lips.
    But wait!
    My mirror is screaming something else.
    It shows me blood too,
    instead of my mere collarbones.

    And today,
    when there's Botticelli's Venus in me,
    why am I standing beside the fake moonlight,
    when I can collapse everything like a 'black' hole?

    ~prachi

  • prachii_ 17w

    Abnormally Normal

    Forget being a brawny
    here, let's arrange a victory cup
    for who got more of
    a pleasant buffalo breath
    in the corridors of shackles,
    shackles that make me better.

    The gun point is still here,
    just above me, above my head,
    as a repercussion to my desire
    of being a wanton
    and I played a money heist for it.

    The altercations haunt me
    for being a coward everyday
    from the literal world
    that lies below my feet
    and I still think it pricks like thorns.

    The red marker is fed up of dancing,
    on the same steps of gyration,
    on the same dance floor of calendar
    where I mark my departure dates
    from a house with no exit gates
    but only a crowded entry gate
    for people like me, who slay themselves,
    between the process of changing skin color.

    These four walls I live in
    to reincarnate myself,
    possesses a different world
    where bizarre is a new normal
    and bloodshot eyes are a habit,
    still, we are called misanthropes,
    when we ourselves are waif.

    I stumble upon half pace
    recollecting myself again,
    in a rush to meet the one of my type
    who is caged in a chair with cuffs
    struggling, yet smiling,
    because he got the glimpse of someone
    after the visiting hours got over.

    What doesn't kill you, makes you s̶t̶r̶o̶n̶g̶e̶r̶ weaker.

    ©Prachi

  • prachii_ 18w

    Fancy intellects

    There, a car without wheels,
    threads tied, eyes wide,
    daughter learns to drive the car,
    scuffed streets, gloomy brakes,
    the mechanic now owns the motor
    as ad hoc wife pays him
    and holds her nose high in pride
    for being his trophy wife
    the last night.

    The Monalisa hangs,
    family photographs fall,
    doorbell rings *don't open*
    waits the stack of coins in blues,
    grabbing them all
    he invites them again,
    throwing memento notes away.

    I see the lavishness again
    stepping out of the kitchen,
    a salver decorated with almonds,
    lemons and lemonades, but ouch!
    the chilled glass hurts me
    and I spy at her husband
    collecting shattered pieces of the glass
    and keeping them up on the pedestal.

    A chest irrigating hate
    is found in diamond mines,
    where he is busy amassing
    glitters out of the mud,
    while his 'once a friend' smiles
    and continues picking up
    each bread, carefully,
    while the rich man's son slurps ramen.

    Children playing peek-a-boo
    with skyscrapers, closing eyes,
    for a real world that exists
    under those golden lashes
    and the silver bracelet,
    that keeps the couple corralled
    for the Bachata with ceased moves.

    ©Prachi

  • prachii_ 18w

    *Censored*

    Studio shelves and piles of files,
    caged opinions by vague panels,
    snatching pink skirts
    from ballerina,
    owning razors for sissonne cuts,
    never so redundant for quixotic jobs.

    Button eyes with black vision
    making conspiracies
    of smooth edges,
    under the paper no one sees,
    of course there lies a jagged turn
    but always in
    the dimension four.

    On the verge
    of placid time,
    antique eagles
    sitting aside,
    some rawhides
    as wedding dress
    and no more
    revealing attire of liberty,
    with withering freedom topping
    serving cherry on the cake.

    ©Prachi

  • prachii_ 18w

    It's long, but I couldn't stop myself! I hope it makes sense :)

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    Will you adore me?

    Between the ice cubes of liquor
    And the words of curse
    There exists some loud silence
    Which no one dares to wither.

    Oh girl! An early made lady!
    What brought you here?
    An idol with promises,
    Or a father with greed?

    Your flirting body, and empty soul
    Lips that caress a man's eager lust
    All speaks of your beauty, brazen girl!
    And still you bloom, shattered.

    You feel no voids, yet you have
    You feel no grief, yet you carry
    A sweet guilt, a bitter pleasure
    All makes you a woman of dreams.

    Leaving your heart aside,
    Where do you belong?
    In a man's bedroom
    Or some daily changing arms.

    Some glittery small money
    Is what it takes to die
    And not people know you by your identity
    But a street girl for ever!

    A victory of survival
    For one more day of agony
    While you fight the night
    For one more day of supper.

    Will you adore me
    For the memories I made?
    Until I reach the grave
    And then mourn for life!

    Does life holds nothing
    For the art you have?
    Or will you remain a whore of morals
    With no smiles to take?

    I will meet you once, on that same street
    And won't exchange words
    But just murmur some silent prayers
    To let flourish this sunflower again!

    ~prachi

  • prachii_ 19w

    Happy Pride Month! ��‍��

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    "T H E Y"

    The bells never judge,
    Whether pink, blue or both,
    Neither the hands that pray,
    Some unheard voices for years.
    The one who speaks,
    Difference over gender
    Or no gender at all,
    Or the dual feelings?
    They seem different, so different,
    For some reasons unknown,
    Isn't breathing enough in their case?

    Definition of claps and blessings,
    Varies from people to people,
    Some claps seem happy, proud.
    And some are the sign of disgust, shame.
    Some hands are from heart. Pure.
    While some 'beg' for money. Greed.
    "They" survive everyday,
    Of these frivolous talks,
    That hits their respect,
    More than the mere heart.

    Oh- such a hot topic this is!
    On having male organs
    And some desires unique,
    Of flaunting saree,
    With a sleek bun and red lips.
    Yes, they are special,
    For this society of ours,
    Who say "special shame" to them.
    And the irony is, these days,
    There's an ugly hegemony of double standards
    over some beautiful double genders.

    ~prachi