raika_

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  • raika_ 3w

    Before you begin to write,
    understand-
    poetry is not about fancy words
    but rugged souls and raw feelings//


    A poem begins
    with an awkward chuckle
    as restless hands shift the pen
    to and fro in their palms
    while eyes search for a reason
    in the darkness surrounding them;
    but once the ears adjust to the
    roars and throbs
    of the ocean waves and east winds,
    those eyes will rest upon a butterfly
    sitting by the field of peonies
    and the poem will settle on your skin
    naked and vulnerable
    with metaphors engraved within
    and a few veiled meanings
    hidden beneath the blues

    A poem loses itself
    halfway down the page
    into a spiral, just like this one
    and when it'll be hard to spot it's purpose
    it will try to merge with the shades
    of someone else's art
    trying to disappear like a chameleon
    for cowardice lies in all of us
    so hold onto it
    and paint it with something of your own;
    a poem is not always clear skies,
    sometimes it is the myriad of colours
    in a sunset
    or all the greys in a storm
    but most of all,
    the poem is you

    A poem never ends,
    it is simply left unheard
    but it is always there,
    waiting to be written again
    another evening
    when the hearts are in pain
    and art needs a rebirth
    without a death of it's own.

    -raika?

    #arspoetica Art of poetry.
    @allbymyself

    //A poem should not mean
    But be
    -Archibald MacLeish

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  • raika_ 4w

    I am wearing a yellow dress today and he tells me that I look like sunshine and smell of lilacs, with my hair falling on my shoulders he slightly brushes them before tucking them behind my ear and rests his hand on my cheek. I smile, with my pale lips as if I have seen a rainbow but as I try to place my hand on his, I do not find it there. He smiles at me and I stare in his black eyes looking for answers within the stars that live beneath those lashes but slowly it turns into a void and he begins disappearing into thin air until he becomes one with the wind and leaves me there, by the window, alone with an ache in my stomach with the butterflies starting to rot and yet I long for more.

    I am wearing a yellow dress today but all I see is blue and all I feel is grey.

    -raika

    Very temporary

    //Hallucinations//

    #picturec this is how you turn a perfectly soothing picture into something sad.

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  • raika_ 4w

    This letter is not addressed to poets, but to struggling human beings,

    I hope this letter finds you well.

    I know you have been fighting and falling lately, and some of you have lost the courage to stand up again. Would you believe me if i say, you are not alone? We are in this together, each one of us with our own set of pain, is running and falling and crying and quitting in this cycle we are all trapped in.

    Life is not easy on you, for some of us it has never been easy - but what if i tell you, your neighbor is mourning someone's death, your friend is suicidal, your enemy is losing in all aspects of his or her life, will it make you kinder? I hope it does because there is a chance this is true.

    Be kind to people around you, you know why? Because you know the pain, the fear and the numbness. You are going through it and you are familiar with ever nook and corner. Human hearts are made weak and there is always love in them, even when we are too cold to feel it.

    You can not love yourself if you have hatred in your heart, so it is time to let go. Let go. It will be okay.

    It will be okay.

    Don't compromise your mental or physical health, remove yourself from situations that trigger anxiety. It will be hard to do so, but you have to do something in order to bring about change. So do something about it, do something for yourself, do this as a favour to your mind and leave. Leave things/people that are not good for you.

    You can not sit by the side of the road after it rains and complain later if a passing car splashes water on your new dress. The dress is already ruined.

    Let's take care of ourselves, let's make life easier for ourselves and for others. Let's not forget to breath.

    Take a deep breath.

    It will be okay.

    With love,
    A human being


    Credits because i don't want to be accused of stealing.

    According to the testimony of ancient historian Hellanicus, the first recorded handwritten letter was written by Persian Queen Atossa, around 500 BC. (hi ma'am, i wrote a letter i hope you won't mind) i copied the information from Google. (thankyou google)

    All the words i used belong to Oxford Dictionary and i own no copyright.

    Writing something hopeful was inspired from pain. Mr. Pain i give you all credits.

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  • raika_ 6w

    I am looking for words around me
    in sunsets and cotton candy clouds
    in green leaves and white flowers
    under pebbles and on the surface of lakes

    I am always looking for words around me
    in skies and on roads
    so i can adorn my soul with poetry
    because i was told that is where i will find peace

    But lately, i have been visiting demons in their caves
    i have been visiting death, hiding away from life
    and every day someone leaves a bucket of words
    on my door

    But lately i have been running away from words,
    I'd shove them away in pits and graves
    and before sleeping every night
    I'd pray for them to stop visiting me
    I'd pray i forget the words that claim to be peace

    Peace is a luxury,
    and i have been lying to claim i have found it in words
    The words in my ink have begun to hurt
    and the heart in my body is too tired to pump

    I think i will stop now,

    So should you

  • raika_ 7w

    ˜”*°•.˜”*°• //Hello everyone, I am Raika and you are listening to Mirakee FM 304.// •°*”˜.•°*”˜


    It's a beautiful day to live,
    with sparrows chirping love songs
    and writers inking about their heart breaks.

    Love and pain,
    pain and love-
    do they belong together?

    To answer this question we have with us, Miss Devika, a poetess/writer. 'Hello, Devika what do you think about this?'

    "Yes love is pain, and pain is love. Without pain you won't be able to realise the power of your love.

    People say pain acts as a catalyst to bring out the love you have for someone, to some extent it is correct but when there's just pain and misunderstanding and the other person isn't trying to understand you, that's when you have to confront them, and if they aren't able to empathize- it's time to leave.

    Love isn't always about perfect sunsets with your loved one, love is about the storm, how you both walk hand in hand in it and come out with rainbows on your head as tiaras. It's about the tears you shed to build your abode, away from everyone else, your home. Just you and your love"

    Wise and beautiful. Answer and the person, both! Thankyou Devika for your time.

    As we conclude this thought,
    Love for some is the cure to all wounds, and for some- it is the wounds. Just like @season_ says,
    'Love is a two edged sword
    You love bad, you kill
    You love well, you heal'

    But you see, love is more than just wounds and cures, it is everything in between. It is war, with a lavender crown on his head, his hands are red of that of blood but he holds a precious white rose, gently.

    Love is nothing like you imagined, it is something that comes to you one night at a time and fills you with emotions you didn't know your heart is capable of feeling.

    I once read a prose by (eurusgrey) Miss Sakshi, she said,
    'Someone once told me I was the sun,
    who turned everything around her to ashes,
    but believe me Darling,
    i'll burn myself down
    before letting even a flame near you.'

    Love can make you do things. Big things.

    Writers tend to write the most on this topic. I once asked a dear friend of mine, Sakshi (my_cup_of_poetry) to describe someone she loves and she said,
    "With stars tucked in his eyes,
    he looks like a poetry that never withers away!"

    How amusing?!

    And now that we are at it, I have Hafeez on call, 'Hi Hafeez, can you hear me? Tell me something about hearbreaks.'

    " Heartbreaks are check points that prepare your heart for true love. Hearts are broken so that they may be petrified again with the lacquer of love.

    I derived it from Kintsugi, which is a Japanese art where broken vessels are lacquered with gold.. And made more beautiful. "

    That is a beautiful message to everyone walking around with a broken heart in their chest.

    We are almost out of time, so here i will quote the wisest of all- Hayat,
    " To be human is to love, and to love is to do so unhumanly.

    I don't think one can be a human without 'loving' (and no, it's not just the romantic kind, it doesn't even have to be a person. Emphasis remains more on it being an activity in some or the other form, more than on the subject of its bestowment. ) And the fact alone that a human can love, transcends the mortal confinements of what 'the humanly form' constitutes of. One would be surprised to fathom such an overflow of something so divine, and to be intentionally ironic, not-humanly-possible -- from a thing so mortal, so trivial, so meek, so common, in its existence.

    That'd also make sense when an experience of love in our lives doesn't go good, sometimes we may even regret it or be deeply saddened by; in the bigger picture, isn't something to be felt "bad" about or regret to. We loved unhumanly. And we loved so in all our human selves. That experience is a validation of our lives in itself. The journey is something of what it means to exist in itself."


    *hisss- static radio noise (white noise)*

    #radioscript #randsunflowers #loveandr
    Get the most out of it folks.

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  • raika_ 7w

    Surprise, I'm alive.

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    A little about me

    My chest is hollow and there is emptiness filled in my soul but it does not bother me or my heart anymore.

    Emptiness is not here to get filled in with light or rainbows but instead it is here to stay this time; it is here to claim me as it's and the good host that i am, i will let it own me,

    become me

    until emptiness drips like tears from my eyes, and it is out there in the ashes when my heart is burnt.

    My heart couldn't care less about the mess it is in; broken pieces of love and stranger's hearts are scattered around it as it lays in a puddle of numbness, too dead to feel the pain my existence is in.

    If you'd come close you'll smell a strong scent my skin radiates off, that of rain for starters but the corpses behind the walls of my eyes don't lie when they say that the rain will soon turn to a storm and drown you in the little pool of numbness and emptiness that i own

    or rather, which owns me

    just like the others before you who mistook my heart for a thing that is capable of loving and now i am guilty (not very much) for breaking them.

    I'd like to call myself a spirit- lost and abondoned, roaming around in the human world without a purpose and the last bit of hope has drained out of my flask so i step carelessly over the autumn leaves of my broken dreams.

    There are bats in my stomach, and they have run out of dead butterflies to feast on so they are eating me up slowly.

    But heart is too numb to care and soul is not mine any longer so it's a few more sleepless nights and empty bottles of whiskey until i disappear into the mist and you might see

    or maybe sense me again

    when you feel the wind hitting your windows and haunting you in your sleep, that will be me- with the wind on the darkest of nights in the fiercest of storms.

    But enough about me, tell me something about you. Tell me how do you keep that shine in those eyes of yours, alive?




    Copyrights to 'raika' because she wrote it.

  • raika_ 9w

    Keep your secrets

    Don't tell a stranger too much
    about the voids under your eyes
    or about your stone cold heart.
    Tell them you are capable
    of loving and giving it back
    and don't tell them about
    those few hearts you broke
    or those few souls you killed

    Don't tell a stranger too much
    about the devils feasting on you
    or the gravestones of angels
    on your finger nails.
    Tell them you are sane
    and a believer of Love,
    how pain is your muse
    and not something
    which has haunted and captured you
    within the walls of fear and self loathe.

    ©raika

  • raika_ 9w

    WO(E)MAN?

    She cries all night, and smiles all day

    You say happy women's day

    but tell me sweetheart, does one wish on a certain day

    heal all the scars she bore?

    Scars need not physical,

    i talk here today about the one's on her heart

    though the one's on her skin

    shout a fair point?

    You stare her up and down, down and up

    in the subway, on the plane;

    at the mall, on the road;

    in her house, in her house.

    You touch her,

    with your devlish hands

    and you think you have the right?

    Tell me now, sweetheart

    who gave you the right to steal

    her innconce, her voice,

    but don't smile so wide,

    they say she lost her respect?

    She is only beginning,

    for there is a fire in all of them,

    in all of their hearts

    and the day you followed her rickshaw,

    the day he pleasured himself sitting beside her,

    the day they felt everything on her body,

    beside her heart

    made her scared at first,

    but remember there is a fire is all of them,

    there was a fire in her too,

    and it guided her out of the tunnel

    not towards light,

    but towards something more divine

    that you men do not understand,

    will not understand,

    she is not the scared little kid anymore,

    she is a woman, with her woes

    but she does not belong to you,

    She belongs to herself,

    she is proud, she is strong

    she is who she is, in jeans or in burkha

    She does not belong to you

    not now, not ever

    ©raika

  • raika_ 9w

    The flow is a mess and very lame but here we go anyway.

    -tale sung by the nightingale-

    Winter is half way out the door
    saying it's final goodbye to the world
    as Janhavi sings it a song
    a final adieu, filled with hope

    Devika and Siddharth sit by the fields
    with poppies stretched around their feet
    fragrance of roses surround their heart
    as they beam at sky's art

    Sakshi and Ayushi make garlands as they sing
    wreathing daisies and asters into a ring
    sun waves once, from behind the clouds
    down below at the ground

    Sky rumbles, as Mihika writes a poem
    and Piu lays beside her, on the golden swing
    humming a tune with delight
    with a basket of lilies by her side

    Sneha makes two paper planes
    and Ketki jumps as it starts to rain
    they toss their planes away to fly
    carrying primroses and proses for the sky

    Sirimiri falls on our faces
    washing away all the aches
    as I and Shafia sit by the lake
    feasting on chocolate cake

    Anu dances along the rimjhim
    with her hair loose, dancing with the wind
    Neha tosses carnations at her from afar
    giggling and shining like a star

    Jasmine sits by the grape vine
    reading a book about ancient times
    her feet dangling in the drizzle
    while Abik plucks lavenders nearby

    Rain slowly fades away
    as Alankrita brings a picnic basket our way
    Sadiah sings the final song
    and we end the eve on happy note

    -raika

    #bflowerc #rains #randsunflowers

    @sangfroid_soul @shafia_khanam ❤️��

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  • raika_ 9w

    -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��

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