Miraquill
Scared that when our paths cross and I would look into your eyes, we won't know each other anymore.
©varnika
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psipher
45w
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I think the reason we see rectilinear is because there is only an extent to which we can bear the sight of what is infront of us. I stare and I don't see anymore; wonder if I could see everything, would I see anything?
I breathe and I know it's heavy, laboured; and then I smile, ignorant of the oblivion. I have learnt to let go and forgive because while trying to hold on tightly, I have only lost the sands in my hand.
I was writing something on the gourmet of emotions we feast on and how "we keep wasting colors", and I went blank: I feel till I don't. And when I don't: a prism lacking light.
Learn from mistakes, but too afraid to make one, and now I die of cure. I could be better, if I waited, but I rather be impatient and call it raw than let it cook and be felt, read, heard.
Shuffle play playlist, and then skip till I like; trust issues. Find love in trenches and stories in abstracts; then baffled at simplicities. Drive on highways, and die one too many times; alive fore ever.
Close, and cold; far and shivering. Warm, ever? But if apricity chars me? I am not crying, no. Tears are sold in bottles; dreams in matchboxes; oops: flooded itself, burnt itself.
Will you know who I am, if I do not, any longer?
~varnika -
psipher
54w
I have been through dungeons, black and dark; but still do not know the color of char. With my smoke consumptions, puff in or puff out I can not tell. Do not know rhymes, meters anymore; I fail and let words be a testimony. Funny how we started with a cry: alive, we were declared. I cry now; dead is the corpse. Poetries of words I still can not pronounce, who did I score with scores of hyperbolic treacherous wit? Read people with words transcendental: wonder what I ever meant. Hurt, am I? Proportionating metal stabs and paper cuts. Mystery of old: making sense, am I?
©varnika -
psipher
55w
For darling, I too bear the
autumnal feuillemort; you
gifted me the halcyon wars
that I suffer from engentado.
Tacenda always pose a better
option now, since I've always
been a tenant staying in your
heart, whose lacuna has already
been filled by many 'sweethearts'.
I too shall escape to the oblivion
as l'appel du vide continues to
allure me more than your
pantagruelian habromania.
©varnika -
psipher
60w
Read More
"We are just collection of atoms that come together for a brief period of time and then we fall apart." - Grace from Chemical Hearts.
This is how i see what i wrote:
I have seen him smile when he was a living entity who could express. And since the second i saw his lips opening wide to express his joy, i knew it was love. I loved how alive he was, and how his smile made me smile. Now when i have been ending, my whole life is flashing in front of me and i can see him, feel his presence more than he can. I can see him like the collection of atoms which can not bear the test of time any longer and can not let the atoms be prisoned again in the form of an entity, after he has seen himself age and die young (the sand slipping from hands too porous to be a prison for little specks that have been a witness of weathering). During the times i could actually feel him alive and i could touch him (our photons interfering), i was busy capturing the photons rather than seeing them (was lost in photographs) . I never really criticised mess my life was till i was so lost in the mess that i could not find him anymore, and the world crashed and stood and ran, never stayed (sabotaged entropy, until i was too lost in it to not know that world is fleeting by). And i let him go, he was gone. Can i go back to the photons, the ones i missed but captured; and burn all these memorabilia to move on and revive the reality of past when i was not ending, when i was with him (Can i burn the photographs and revive it from ashes when i cease to end) ?I have seen him smile. And since then I knew it was love. I have been ending, and now I can see him. See him like the sand slipping from hands, too porous to be a prison for little specks that have been a witness of weathering. During the times I could actually feel our photons interfering, I was lost in photographs. I never really sabotaged entropy, until I was too lost in it to not know that world is fleeting by. And I let him go, he was gone. Can I burn the photographs and then revive it from ashes when I cease to end?
©varnika -
psipher
61w
I have had people leave me when they always said if 'we' ever fall apart, they would never be the reason; and yet they are: everytime. Some say i cry and complain too much. Maybe yes, i do. Maybe i shed tears over the most nonsensical things because my soul has been so ripped that i wanted you to give me a band aid. Maybe i let my eyes swell up and stain red, because i did not barricade the feelings, thinking you would be there. Maybe i complain because i expected better of you because you promised me that. Maybe i do not let things just pass at times because i always felt we could talk it out with your bottles of caffeine and a plate of maggi. Maybe i smiled at you too when you were smiling, because you were smiling. Maybe i tried being there for you, as your shoulder to lean on. Maybe i tried walking in your shadows, to be much evident when it is dark. Maybe you never saw me seeing you. Maybe, just maybe, you loved me but not enough to stay.
©varnika -
psipher
61w
Before I could take another gulp of air just after saying yes, his lips were already on mine. Sliding to my back: his hands; and there we were in the middle of the road, trying to get our first best kiss, with sun roaring above our heads.
They felt warm. Chocolates and honey saccharine and wines and whiskey addictive. He wanted to have more of mine, better of my lips, my musculature. It all solubilised. Sublime. Exhausting. Heavenly. Love. We were still there, trying to keep pace.
Bit me then. Ouch. With shivers down my spine, he is my new addiction. I tremble with joy as he caresses my waist, never to leave my breaths mixed with his. And soon we were drinking from each other. The euphoric waters of love and life.
With heightened sensations, finally isolating our lips. It felt like the end. I wanted more. More of his lips. More of his breaths breathing in me. More of his hands flowing in directions. More of his body chafing against mine. More of his soul, winning me all over. More of him. And him.
And as the clock struck midnight, I stand there. Scorched and wrecked, I want his eyes on me. Beginning to feel lonely in the crowded multitude, I long him, miss him, crave him. Few moments are like centuries spent. And now I wait to never have to leave his hand in oblivion, because he is not a coincidence but a phenomena.
©varnika -
psipher
63w
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©psipher -
psipher
63w
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©psipher -
psipher
64w
While you walk along some wilds, perfuming the alleys of your chest, illuminating the void within, stepping on puddles to see how far splashes could fly before they died, I stand, with world crashing down. We have been too close to be together.
Hurt, is a word rather difficult to explain, you do not know it is hurting until it is metastasized. You breathe in, you breathe out, with mechanisms on default, what if you had to labor for every molecule?
It is cold, and you do not how to burn enough to not burn. Shivering, lamenting while sitting on specks of grasses centrifuged with dirts, do you not lie down tired of lying?
Crying is more of a defence mechanism now, to prove you ain't numb to not feel a thing again. We hope it will get better; we both know, in our hearts, there can never be enough punctuations.
You do not want to be alone, but who are you lying to? Seeing them walk away, leaving your soul empty barren again, you learn to love better, but just not yourself.
©varnika
-
absynth
53w
Read More#joyntventure #collectiveconsciousness #accuracy #freedback #audience #wod #adventurec #writersbay
#writersofmirakee #mirakee #mirakeeRoar #pod #readwriteunite #wordporn #writersnetwork #writerscommunity #mirakeeapp #writers_paradise #writers_together #mirakeepost #mirakeefamily #mirakinity_mibe #writersunited #writersbureau
@poetryly Something "beautifully crafted" for you if you are passing by :Djoy-nt vent-ure
Genuine feedback is essential
For any writer to grow
It's a symbiotic relation
Through which collective consciousness flows
For the ideas and emotions that emanate
As arrows of insight
Need other minds and hearts as targets
To serve as the bull's eye.
Poetry is a free shooting range
Where all can try their hands
But the one who excels at the adventure
Is the one who aims through the lens of feedback
Without being swayed by the perfunctory nod of appreciation
And is wise enough to hold onto his/her confidence
While ignoring the instant gratification.
Now to simplify the sermon,
Writing is a lonely pursuit
And its so easy to feel left out
Even in the presence of a huge fan following
And that's where the active audience comes in
Because all humans have a lot in common
That lies dormant inside them
And the curiousity of understanding that missing connection
Keeps the channels of exchange always open.
All those readers who have the guts
To bypass the ornamental glory of the writeup
And speak of new ways in which it could be re-written
Are the precious alloy without whom the writer
couldn't hold onto the brittle gold he/she creates
And the hunt for creative treasure
Would be a pursuit in vain.
Criticism is a word with a negative connotation
And can never replace the purity of feedback.
The former reeks of preconceived notions
While the latter tends to have your back
So all those rare readers who take the pains to emote
The goods and bads along with the reasons for them being so
Deserve to be cherished and reciprocated for their efforts,
Respected for their courage to open their mouths
And face their own fears and doubts
Yet reveal them nevertheless to the writer with no holds barred.
This is how collective consciousness evolves
And spreads like pollen across the world
That is how language loses its limitations
And new flowers of creativity bloom and blossom.
©absynth -
arborvitae
52w
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-
raika_
63w
Read More-An ordinary mess-
Love and pain,
aestheticity and filters
and the colours, black and white
are so overrated
that you forget about
what lies in between -
The Ordinary
and it is the ordinary things
that make the butterflies flutter
and blood rushing;
it is the ordinary
that we hide
within fancy words
and kill the beauty
with knives and pens.
The world does not end
on love and pain,
there's numbness
and there's peace
there's relief
and there's a
million tiny emotions
unsaid and unread
we are more than a song
or a prose-
we are Beethoven's tone deafness
we are more than pictures-
we are memories
trapped inside forgotten Polaroids.
we are more than just mistakes-
we are ordinary and
peculiar
at the same time
-raika
@allbymyself @__maryam__
@thefoxisdead thanks for the help��.
-
thegreymetaphor
64w
Read MoreI'm in my very early teens
when a classmate walks up
and looking at my black painted nails
she says, "It's a bad women's trait."
The elder brother she looks up to
has told her that girls who
wear black paint aren't virgins
and so, my heart sinks.
Not at the ridiculousness of it,
not at the tragedy of my character
being defined by a colour
but at the possibility of people
seeing me as "impure".
I do not paint my nails black thereafter.
I'm 15 now about to choose
the stream I'd like to study further
when an elder tells me
there's no point in dreaming
what's beyond your reach.
I clench my fists
and immediately bite my tongue
so it wouldn't talk back.
I'm 16 and my english teacher
tells the class that she should not
find the word "rape" in our
answer scripts for it's too crude.
So we write modesty outraged, instead.
I'm 17 and I discover
my lip shade is too loud and
the depth of my neckline decides
whether or not I'm "asking for it".
I've worn my lipstick like
written apologies ever since.
I'm 18 when the person beside me
slips his hand up my waist
and I sit there holding my breath
too stunned to react.
I run towards father to complain
but the aunts hold me back.
"Boys will be boys", they say
"would you ruin the family relation
over something like that?"
So I clench my fist, bite my tongue
and zip it up, once again.
Until I'm 19 and it repeats.
Same audacity, same insolence
with a different face.
But I can't take it again so I turn
to the world this time.
I write poems to pour it all out.
But along with the open arms
come the raised eyebrows.
"Not all men!" they scream.
And I cower back not knowing
when did I ever say all men.
I slowly turn back as I watch
the world quarrel amongst itself.
When did the narrative
become all about whom to blame
and whom not to blame?
Where did my trauma get lost?
Why do I have to explain
and beg for audience's discretion?
Is the audience that naive?
Or does it prefer living in denial?
So I stop writing "those" kind of poems
thinking I'll return when I have
the right kind of poem.
I'm past 20 now and I still
do not know what
the right kind of poem looks like.
I do not know how unafraid
I've come to be or how far I'm yet to go
but I do know that
I do not bite my tongue anymore.
I might not throw fists but
never again would I clench them
just to swallow the poison.
I would not explain being a feminist
with the disclaimer "I do not hate men"
everytime, just so you approve.
I would not beg for what's right.
My demands are not requests
but they are willing to wait
for you to understand that
they're anything but unreasonable.
For you to realise that
there are millions like me and
our defiance is not an act of aggression
but a cry for consideration.
And until that happens,
I'll glide the lipstick on my lips
like the pen I put my signature with.
And I'll wear my nails black
better than the distaste
you wear on your face at the sight of it.
©Srishti
__________________________________________________________
It cannot get simpler than this.That kind of poem.
I do not know what
the right kind of poem looks like.
©thegreymetaphor -
spicy_sugar
65w
Read MoreWhat hurts in cheating? That they cheated on you or the fact that you never expected them to? That they choose someone else over you or you weren't prepared? That they broke your trust or the mistake of trusting them in the first place?
People usually beg "people" to stay, but, I always begged him to go away. Not because he's toxic, but, I am. He always said he'd stay. Maybe I believed it a little too much, that I was shattered when he did go away. Cheated, actually.
//I always thought that my heart is numb/dead and no one can break it. But, I realized, dead leaves also make a sound when crushed.//
I always said that he couldn't break me, that it is impossible to break something that's already shattered into tiny pieces. But I was wrong, or maybe am not. Maybe he fixed me enough to break me, again. Maybe he loves the sound of heartbreak.
//He always asked which is my favorite song. I guess his was and is moans of my broken heart.//
©spicy_sugar
#ceesreposts @writersnetwork @mirakeeHe always asked which is my favorite song,
I guess his was and is moans of my broken heart.
©spicy_sugar -
branthan
65w
Read MoreWorld. The world is too loud, and it's getting worse day by day, louder. Even when it's 3 am where you put your xm4 to shut the noise out, it keeps banging your head, screaming. If this was a perfect world, we should not be even existing in the first place. All of this should have been nothing, not dark, not light, not void but nothing. I wonder what would it feel like, to be nothing. Stripped away from this materialistic and spiritualistic lie to be part of something unknown. A reality that we still haven't dreamed of. We have this habit to fill empty spaces with new things, from empty carts to empty rooms to the void that you feel inside with a stranger.
Crowds. I have noticed that the world is getting crowded. There are more people on the streets, vehicles in a rush to be somewhere. Every moment the six feet of space is filled with another dream, new faces, new sounds, new noise. It is a scary thing sometimes, the idea that there are a thousand more dreams waiting to replace your six feet of space when you fall. It is strange, how we feel claustrophobic in an empty room and lonely in a crowd. Maybe all of this will fall someday, tumble down like a sandcastle and drown as if it never existed. But we are in a rush to be somewhere.
Death. My dog was sick, I don't think he worries about death like we do, even though he is made to survive as long as possible. For me, death is this absence of something, something so personal that it's hard to explain to someone else why it is that you miss someone or something. I miss the cute noises my cat used to make whenever he dives into the Whiskas even when he was full. He is part of the soil now, every part of his existence slowly disintegrating into things that aren't alive, paving the way to new life.
Death is this absence of familiarity, a touch, a smile, a text, a voice, long pauses, late nights, the way you used to feel... Sometimes it is a scary thing, not knowing the exact moment when you feel the absence. But we romanticize about it, the late nights when it is not so scary anymore because the warmth that you feel is so personal, like the waves that always come back to the shore.
Meaning. It's such a wonderful thing when you think about it, how the dead things collectively come together and become alive. Alive, to feel the happiness, the sadness, the pain, the suffering, and then the inevitable death to go back and disintegrate into dead things, waiting to be alive again. This part of you that is alive carries memories of this universe, the journey from the big bang through the vast emptiness to finally settling down on this planet. From some chemical reactions on the ocean to single-cell organisms to apes to our ancestors. We carry the footprints from the past, past we have never seen but deeply connected to. Perhaps that is why some of us feel a deep connection with the ocean, a sense of tranquility about the waves that feels so personal. I wonder you feel the same.
#justamidlifecrisis.
-
jeelpatel
66w
Read More#homosapiens_j
#humans
It's long. Thank you for your kind read.
THIS TIME I AIN'T SURE. May be it doesn't make so much sense.
THANK YOU �� @writersnetworkHomo Sapiens - 17.0
(Existentialism)
Homo Sapiens have gotten kind of life which is having fundamentals of laissez-faire. Harder you try to control the trajectory of circumstances or patterns of different ideologies according to your flexibility of moving through it successfully, greater the intensity of bereavement occurs. No matter bereavement of self improvement, of love for this life, of optimistic look towards predicaments, of generosity towards ever increasing human population. Humans and their perceptions to nullify or give friction to their peer pressure; concepts for orthodox or modern rituals, events, occasions; proclamations about their ongoing construction or bulldozing in this lifetime is different according to their individualism. It's like unseen, unheard permutations inside the wiring of their brains, strategized by their neurones intertwined with respective experiences for the ultimate goal to live this life through healthy struggle. Only at the time of execution curtains will be removed and light will be thrown onto the microscopic glass to observe what kind of pattern they have created out of whatever life has given to them. Transmission of diversity is worldwide, throughout life all you learn is how to understand the meaning of acceptance for these different views in the form of criticisms or compliments or positive feedbacks or setbacks. Knowing different trends and people's views isn't enough to survive as a social animal for domestic life, but understanding them, working on their views, mixing own and others' passions, matters more than just knowing. In any aspect whether in relationships, economically, ethically, industrial way adjustment with different mindsets is needed to make things work out in a best way, don't compromise with your own tactics or axioms for particular task but never stick with self righteous when it comes to learn, working together as a social crew. It's an art to grow together in a beautiful way by challenging your propensity and your self soaked senses.
Life isn't about sophomore album which can be recorded again with vintage theme, in your favourite part of classical hometown where still mulberry silk like long hair threads wait for their platoons in combat boots to get roses tucked above their ear lines, so fragrance of love stay within them when platoons leave 'em. Life is all about that healthy yearning which makes your heart go bananas, about those failures which lead to almost but not complete success; which exasperatedly pours gasoline for your small ignition of insomnia, about stubbornness to bear thousands unafraid suicides over single survival, about little things for which you can get ready to break yourself beautifully, about laughs and cries which label the Polaroids of persistence. Homo Sapiens ain't inborn Saint or murderer. They ain't inborn like the way they are now, eventually many external factors contribute to mold them that way. Biological factors and genetics always there to play their roles in both somatic or psychic way. But it ain't necessary that if you are born by criminal paternity with caramel coloured caffeine in their hands, abusive words on handicapped tongues then you would have just bombings and indifference for every house you would come across. Every day, from your first step out of your door till your last step at your doorstep you are inputting new things inside your brain, heart, body if you be mindful nigh to your surroundings, people and observe it; just like that you're outputting according to how all of these work and bring changes inside the rhythm of your life by leading it's note high into graph or just towards the downfall in its self expansion. It's about with how much intensity your doggedness you put after suffering and survival of homo sapiens' life by being grateful to have every bit of it. Every day of it.
Homo Sapiens lives ain't limited to just this materialistic world or to saying of any clairvoyant. Nor pier-end palmists can write exact verses of their future - poetry. Millennial cycles of their lives have been there, innovating and establishing the unknown from their own lives, and that's how unknown of past centuries are being known to this century. There is no confines to their ability. But since past few years, worldwide we have been watching toxicity is consuming external environment and humans' inner environment too, it's not like every forest is now being desert and every human is being corrupt, losing morals. May be, magnets inside us getting attracted to pole which will make us feel stuck, anxious, inept, robbed by rampage, even though there are lot of ways to stay healthy, detoxed mentally and physically too. Time comes and that apathetic behaviour lingers, you cut social contacts off, rumination of fears and worries happens, pessimistic side rises above horizon, feeling to be on the end of time or soaked in overwhelmed days, all of these seem like one part of your homo sapiens life. Lately, every other person is suffering from these kind of phases in their lives. You can't escape from it like bobcat through dense trees. But you can go through it, you can find the keys which can help you to deal with that kind of phases on temporary bases rather just dwelling with melancholy and reading bold line of catastrophes. Every homo Sapiens ,searching for sophrosyne - healthy state of mind, state of true happiness, fully awareness inside other person, or by having desire to have something which they haven't got till now. We, overlook the things (not talking about good or bad just moments, or things) we have, we have to make something out of them to add one more experience into life's journal; rather we waste time, peace of mind, our energy in things we don't have. That's how you start to take bad sides of everything, cease to learn, show your back to battles, compromise your dreams, and don't cultivate your potential to go through life.
Take a look, see how much fortunate you are by having this will inside your body, by getting one more day to live and one more breath to breathe, suffering don't go in vain if there is satisfaction to endure it. Be grateful to have this lifetime on this orange shaped planet Earth as a homo sapiens. For, it's mystery as it's solution. Open the doors, hummingbirds writing happiness, clocks on high towers singing to "trust on ticking trigger", and homo sapiens are living in confusion, in cosmic hopes, one more day, dusk till dawn.
©jeelpatel -
pen_and_paper
66w
Read MoreThis poem is senseless cause it's loosely based on my dreams.
Also, @my_cup_of_poetry
@jeelpatel
@lady_midnight
@__maryam__
Thank you.Dreams
There's a poem,
I've written on the last pizza I ate.
There's a song about some tragedies,
which I love more than anything.
They're engraved on the tissue paper,
I wiped my hands with,
and threw it away while listening to Opeth.
There's a vulture, looking for my eyes.
In the abyss somewhere dark.
I'll meet him someday when I'd feel like,
I wanna spend my life in that burning train.
There's happiness feeding my bones,
like I saw her for the first time.
I'd bend my knees in front of a stone.
I'd weep for you, in my contentment.
There's a plastic bag, I've carrying through,
I'd give someone to eat it whole,
for black is my color,
blackish is my soul.
I'd love you better,
and kill you before.
©pen_and_paper -
arborvitae
73w
Read More
I want to make a nest for us, I want to keep you in my blanket and wear your fragrance, I want people to talk to me about you and nothing else, I don't want to discuss work or flowers, I want to talk about how she fills my heart with joy and purpose, how she is so understanding and fun to be with, how I have stood and never looked beyond her shoulders, when her eyes look all pink, I loose my stability, I want them to know how holding you is a treat and I don't get scolded anymore for treating myself. I want them to know that I have slept well and I want to work on Wednesday with calmness and when I don't talk to anyone they should if feeling concerned ask about your well-being and not if I am okay?
.
-
dusky_dawn
71w
Sulking slogans
I pity the slogans
On the walls.
They remind me of my mother's
Creepy voice
"I am your mother.
I have sacrificed my youth. my choices
Now I'll sacrifice you in front of the wolves.
I spit on them
Of they remind me of my Fathers
Alcohol and the cigarette marks.
The douchebag's character.
His touch. His saliva.
Reminds me of abusive love
Reminds me of a helpless kid.
Reminds me of the white powder on his palm.
Reminds me of his hands tracing down
Everywhere. Anywhere..
Reminds me of filth. Reminds me of myself.
I curl up in the sheets.
In summers when the temperature hits hard
I sneak out at 3.am's and slip into darkness
Into the alley's where voice sounds like crime
I creep the creatures out.
I throw paints on the walls
With slogans on the motherhood.
With slogans on the man called father.
I scratch the walls with my tainted nails
I sell my naked soul to the dogs on the streets.
I cry under the city lights.
I curse the slogans. The mothers. The fathers
In my sleep.
©dusky_dawn
