Mirakee
This life
It keeps hurrying over
And I leave behind spaces
I promise to fill with joy one day
That one day I will live
Without counting seconds
Even if the world ends
I have to run fast as I can,
I cant let freedom slip by my hands.
When unknowingly time cages me,
In whirlpool of perplexed directions,
Steering life in a melancholic trance.
I am no longer aware where I am,
From what I started and who I loved,
Of whom I thought of or how I lived.
I have been running for so long.
©redstrings
redstrings
insta : redstrings_123 ��
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redstrings
8w
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redstrings
9w
I found a song that makes me dance ,
Calling up a laughter on silenced lips.
I walk on streets with a flower in eyes,
Catching on a rhythm of chirping birds.
I fall clueless on clouds to fly away,
Cuddling to fairies in rustic bookshelves.
I scribble dreams on empty lines of life,
Caging inside colors the dampen feelings.
I hoard boxes full of moments around me,
Camping with familiar yet unfamiliar letters.
I sit inside these four walls looking around,
Caressing heart now begging for her friends.
©redstrings -
redstrings
14w
Love of people is like a formal attire,
Pressed to look perfect but is depressed.
It makes all pleasantries on their time,
But when you need to breathe, leaves you tied.
Not even a scar it tolerates on its turf,
You dare to be free when you carry their dreams!
Expects perfection but doesnt go beyond a mile,
You become all but a projection of their fickle desires.
©redstrings -
redstrings
15w
I am reading Love
Fallen apart on dust permeated shelves,
Cold stains on potpourri of letters shelved,
Feeble memories of sunkissed noon spread.
Crumbled away on slumber coaxed scrawls,
Fickle metaphors on longing of hearts scrawled,
Convoluted dribbles on bedewed paper sparred.
And I hoppped amongst their hopes for stars.
©redstrings -
redstrings
17w
I have all but a breath left,
Is it too much for me to have?
I hear you, I listen to your eyes,
Always ready to push me to hell.
But am already there, why cant you see?
Whats the purpose of feeling envious of me?
Do you want me to bleed more for you to heal?
I will show you the scars still red but will you believe?
Will you believe? That I have nothing left to keep.
Nothing! Not even a desire to live.
For if I dare to breathe, the world cant heal.
They laugh only when I weep.
©redstrings -
redstrings
17w
My words have been cut short,
I leave sentences open to their ends,
A trouble though but its well spent.
I often have no conclusions to offer,
And corpses do smell depressed,
So take heed when you hear it sneeze.
To be taught to loathe your own laughter,
Is all but a token of misery indeed.
But you survive alright, even without your dreams.
You still know to breathe & hold your speech.
You will do, so now buckle up & throw all those quills.
Its a bit of gloomy weather but you will still sleep.
So what if whip peels off your skin, aint like blood is green.
Even corpses dont dare to speak.
©redstrings -
redstrings
17w
You fell for a cold heart,
It has stopped to breathe.
Grew tired of running on feet,
So it dozed off away from seeds,
That get watered to bloom like trees.
It has no shade to protect you from heat.
You fell for a cold heart, indeed,
It has long forgotten how to dream.
After bleeding alone on dark streets,
And a laughter chasing it down the hills,
Away & Away from clouds & their winds.
It has no tears left to weep on past fields.
You should leave this cold place, soon.
It offers no hope for you to believe.
Like a dead flower it has lost its colors,
When touched it screams like a beast,
It tried to live but they suffocated its limbs,
So run away before you forget how to sing.
©redstrings -
redstrings
18w
I hate your claims & remains,
On any part of my butchered soul.
Its wounded enough to survive alone,
But not alive to be a prisoner of your war.
It learnt to breathe from dust around storms,
So abandon it at your will for it refuses to submit.
And wear a passion you sell yourself in many forms.
©redstrings -
redstrings
18w
I slipped out of locked walls,
More of a shadow than stone.
World was but a forest of tombs,
Creepers were twisted & so bored,
Crackle of leaves mourned a song,
Of whom? Then they ask to be alone.
I fumble through bushes as lost as fog,
A step gone wrong to standstill at a cliff,
Looking down at a graveyard reaching skies,
I shiver in an emotion unwritten & unexplored.
I want to jump and float amongst rotten songs.
A thorned vine but promised to keep me drowned,
Forever on the edge of ocean like a mermaid half bound,
With the tormented flap of her wings begging to be torn.
©redstrings -
redstrings
19w
A whipped cloud in the storm,
As grey lashes fall upon soul,
Ask skin how it holds on to cold,
Away from breaths shaken to core,
Alone amongst a chaotic hope.
©redstrings
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wisteria_
19w
Read MoreMaybe I'll write like I don't want anyone to read or understand. Because maybe...
Intricacies, details, dreams, illusions, reflections, and some things that stay connected, yet lead nowhere. A thread or two bound together, barely with loose ends. You pull it, thinking it's the one, a relief to the lump you carry, called conscience, you pull it, like a sickle you'd thrust on the scruff of your hazy words, you pull it, turns out it wasn't the thread you eyed at. That's life. Or a dream. Or maybe an illusion. Am I for real?
There's a definition floating in air, and it enters the nostrils of yearnings to reach the codependent lungs, and punctures reality, and senses. There are holes in my lungs. The air gasps out to the suffocated murmur of a pining heart. What do my ears hear? A sound of fallacy, a sound of realest fallacy.
What good is a word that travelled down my tongue, to fall on your fingers dipped in a paint of hurt and memoirs, in perceptions and blindness. Those subtle lines on your hands, that brush away the white off those sheets on a canvas, they aren't as guilty as my eyes, they don't bite themselves like my tongue does. A word falls on the floor, with rotten droplets of pitiful paint.
There's a hair tie, to stuff ideas, dreams, and the strands that flow with the wind, there's a hair tie holding back a head, from the night of parmesan stars. The hair tie is cruel, and was shamed by its parents for not being tight enough. It doesn't listen to my ill-defined love, or my ill-defined desperation. Maybe the hair tie is rightfully taut, and numb, and maybe lifeless too.
A bird chirps in my backyard, two mornings straight to blush on my cheeks, but doesn't come to greet my third dawn. I broke my wall to make a window, to let the bird in. I have no wall now, just broken bricks, that sing me to sleep, in their soothing yet churning Llorando, I'm sleeping in a pool of tears, I'm sleeping with my eyes open, I'm sleeping with my ears alert. I'm sleeping. There's a ceiling doomed to fall.
Insanity is a thump of a peculiar smile to the sky, often unseen, unrecorded, unheard. You can't tell, how many smiles closer a person is, to that one smile. There's a world for the mad, a pair of eyes for the crazy, and a shade of an unprovided love, that would have gone un-understood anyways. The sanity sits in the corner, singing smoothly the song of slow death, when my smile roars to an abyss like sky.
Comprehension of thoughts is a mere trick of mind. I stopped calling myself a mystery long ago.
There's a line of hands to pluck a rose. There's a line of hands to caress the rose. There's a line of hands to crush the rose. What can the rose do, all the hands look same, without the sermon of time! What can the rose do, tell me mate? Will you pick a pair of hands? I think you already have. We all have.
I'm a mile away from sleep and an inch closer to spilling myself sheer naked, in front of my mind's silhouettes. You know the other name of comfort in someone's arms? It's thrashing out the voice of a cynic in you. But seldom can you silence it, right? The arms are lovely. The arms are lovely. I hope they remain so.
Have you too, in your own way, written a song of love and sung it in your head, to never look alike what's found? And look a lot like what's lost? There's white in his body, but somehow he colours me grey. The hues are vivid, yet just falter before my songs. I'm coloured grey. I fear I'll always be.
Can you love someone, without loving their mind, without your idle heart attempting to brighten the moon in their eyes, without taking them as a lucky find of your life? Can you love someone, for the extra second they wait, for you to travel back to reality, for the extra minute they give you, to crack the shell of your sham, and hug them back? Can you love them for the days they don't hear or understand a word you say, and for the days they call you beautiful even when you're wrapped in a bubble of anxiety?
Can you love someone who loves your body, without knowing your mind? Can you love someone who hugs you without knowing who you are? Or would you wait for a bird? Or let the ceiling fall? Would you risk another pair of hands in your garden of thorns?
Tie your hair back, with three threads bound in ignorance. Tie your hair back with pride. You'll be alive and dead.
Do you know the difference between reality and illusion?
Tie your hair back. Breathe slowly. You don't need to know. -
If you've been in a room that is trapped shut,
but it sordidly fails
to prevent the one on deathbed
from making an offhand escape
through the bolted doors and windows.
While you're left alone
to fend the cold that follows ,
that renders you hollow on the inside.
And attacks your soul like termite
No matter how hard you hold on, you've lost the fight.
Your eyes convincing the monitor to show a spike,
but there's nothing on there
except for a tragic flat line
You've to address the family
Have done it before, but it never gets easy.
They are still holding on to the hope of lucidity.
The spark those old eyes showed on evening.
Slipping in and out of consciousness, every time
murmuring.
But it was false hope, it rarely isn't.
You sit down next to the gentleman and give him a reason.
Why his wife of a 40 years relationship
had to get up and leave in between,
leaving him to fend for himself.
You did your best, but you couldn't help.
And in his glistening eyes, you see a reflection,
of the perfection, that he thought their marriage was
the memory of his lover, the promise of forever,
and the hurt that her passage has caused.
Soon you've to show yourself out of the sad room.
As the family trickles in to go about the bad fortune.
Rooms too crowded for an outsider to enter.
Too full of colliding memories, unbalanced, no centre.
And if you weren't paying attention
right next to the now-empty bed,lies one more.
Another life falling apart in a doggone contraption.
A metallic,violent cough rips apart familial bonds out of action.
©tardigrade -
wallfl0wer
21w
Read More"if beauty comes through pain,how much pain one should go through to be labelled as 'beautiful'?
title is taken from song by Bon Iver.
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@mirakee THANK YOU SO MUCH.❤��
this my first pod,and i still can't get over this. thank you. this made me happy :))
@writersnetwork thank you ❤��
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@felix__anima @asphodel_ @inara__ @vivenne you people are the reason i still haven't left this place.
@raika_ @thousand_splendid_thoughts aap logo ne dhamki di thi isliye likha tha (._.)skinny love
apart from switching off alarm,
each morning my skeleton arm,
reaches to weighing scale and inchtape,
to measure my tonnage,limbs and belly to specify my shape,
and it's exciting stimulus,
even if i shed my size by centimeters,
each morning i gather my bones,
fats 'under' and taunts 'on' my skin,
for it's uneven tones,
to keep staring myself in mirror,
until i feel disgusted and wish for bigger
thigh gaps,and thighs more skinnier,
flat belly isn't convincing to me,
it's concave one i wish it to be.
i keep inhaling,
until i am assured i feel my ribs,
against my skin,
i keep exhaling,
until i am convinced my waist size,
is smaller and thin,
i keep grumbling about,
the extra layers i possess,
until my palm is impressed,
and can feel the bones beneath.
apart from wearing body warmers,
in months of may and june,
even in hot summer noon
and not feeling the warmth,
of blood circulating in my own veins,
it takes winning over 20 battles and pains,
to feel my 4 extremities,
cold feet and other numb entities.
i keep skipping,
meals till I'm feared,
the acid in stomach may digest the gut,
i keep convincing,
mumma by phrases, ' i am full'
and 'i don't like cookies and doughnut'
i keep flushing,
calories by throwing away the food,
and hiding quickly before mumma starts questioning 'what-'
apart from wearing the clothes
sized too big to conceal my 95 lbs fat body,
and trying hard not to faint,
by gulping the water down to my empty stomach,
it takes fighting my social anxiety,
constantly running hyper aware
already exhausted brain,
and bypassing through at least 73 pair of eyes,
to reach my seat in a classroom.
apart from learning history and science
it takes calculating the calories inside,
my lunchbox to decide my eligibility,
to devour,chew and swallow my next meal.
apart from attending classes,
maintaining notes and gratitude journals
it take writing about 'skinny-is-beautiful' assertions and repeating them,
when hunger hits,when i feel "i am not full".
i like how my friends compliment,
my 24 inch waist as accomplishment,
the dresses that flaunt my collarbone,
and cosmetics that enhance my cheekbone,
more the praises that say 'beautiful'
more i hate being full,
more i am convinced about my lifestyle,
and lot more it pushes me to suppress my appetite for a while.
but i hate how my brain keeps running,
around numbers and counting,
grams and pound,
inches and meters,
joules and calories.
i hate how my head always feels light,
even after carrying tonnes of toxicity,
and how my body feels so heavy,
despite its fragility,
and i hate every time i have to repeat, same boring assertion to suppress my hunger heat,
when my nose senses the aroma of something sweet.
i hate the amount of time i spend,
thinking about excuses to skip dinner,
and lunch over weekend.
every night my skeleton hands,
write how much i want to change myself,
and every morning the same hands,
reach out to weighing scales and inchtape,
just to make sure, nothing is going in vain,
afterall,beauty comes through pain.
right?
©wallfl0wer -
ayushsangwan
27w
the moon looks like a folded chapati tonight
lying pale on a black pan. and the mango tree in the dark looks like the shadow of a person spying on me.
the wind passes by
caressing my skin with its cold fingers
i wrap my hands around me and sigh
on nights like this when i am alone with myself and there's silence, i sigh
because when my lips are immobile
i am always roaming around you like that chapati
which shimmers in sky,
you are the earth, and since you are
that, you revolve around someone else
as -
love_whispererr
29w
Read MoreWell...miracles happen here everytime...
Thank you so much @writersnetwork ❤️
Thank you so much @mirakee ❤️
#poem #love_whispers @writersnetworkSOME SHADES OF POETRIES
~
The silken sunshine of July morn, the raindrops of seraphic August, the darkness of September, the summer rain of sanguine March and the snowflakes of December ; don't allure you to scribble 'bout 'em ?
This nature is a supermarket. Just stand here and wait to perceive those overwhelming shades. Miracles happen here everytime. The darkness seems as the part of you but the moonlight lightens the scars of a poet while stars twinkle and clouds dawdle. Everytime the universe begins to romanticize. Those verses hide inside your woebegone days and the emollient smile of your beloved.
Fugacious childhood rhymes in front of those soaring kites and birthday cakes. The chocolate wrapper(which you shared with your first love on your first date) tries to wink at you from your favourite diary yet you scribble there about ethereal life till the nefarious death.
Isn't this romantic ?
I think 'bout this and the poetry whispers in my left ear
"I'm the poetry, can't count my age but can count your erstwhile melancholies and fetching happiness. I've scars yet I smile while looking at those dazzling stars. I cherish every moment with the voices of mothers as lullabies and also I twirl with the tunes of chatoyant katydids.
This is me, the poetry ;
And this is my paradisiacal story."
I pause.
I sigh.
And I smile.
~bidya -
.
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Doubt
Doubt, a red persimmon of transformation-
Eternity into self made nihility.
Waggoner, passengers on illusion's back
Skids on crabways of biased mountain
In sceptic's hydrocephalus skull
For, it's big yet empty
Steadfast to apocalypse
For own peace, for others' too.
It plays the convenient golf
In St. Andrews of own judgements
Knocking homes of people down
Siphon felicity in tight bottle
And throw gasoline in fire of gardens
For, seed of doubt, hardened, deepened
Too late to pull it out
For, it gives birth to plights, gripes mere
High alert, to sceptic, to victim, to doubt
As your world is beautiful in reality,
But your mind will wash it away
In charred giant rivers of ruins
For, unseen disease kills,
More wisely, with more passion,
With more seconds of sabotage.
You'd just observe, intensity of doubt
©jeelpatel -
tamanna3
39w
Read MoreLaying on the blanched coverings
Of a mattress supported faltingly
On a wrecked bedstead of existence,
I stare in vain at the once virescent
Floral patterns imprinted on the fabric,
Now all faded, resembling well-nigh
The old letters stored in the cabinet.
Blue ink smudged on the white,
Creating a paradigm of turquoise rillets
Cascading through the paper.
I turn to the old photograph,
A souvenir caged within
A wooden frame sculpted by
The hands of some unnamed carver.
Portraying the volatility
Of all mortal entities at large.
// My mind leafs through the pages
Of my unscripted memoir,
Each chapter smells of burnt roses,
Ignited as a ritual on my demise.
I dust off the ashes
And watch them flutter away,
In the puffs of my moribund breath. //
I wish the world to remember me even then,
Not as the last word of their favourite tales,
But as the library that preserves all the volumes
They couldn't keep for themselves.
I wish to be the melody still chiming at your ears
After you disengage a phone call with your lover,
For your mind may someday abandon
The lyrics of your favourite song
But never the melody that made your heart flutter
The very first time you ever fell in love.
I wish the world to remember me still,
As a sapphire ring they come across at some store,
That reminds them of the azure sky
That adorned the happiest day of their life.
If not any one thing,
I'd still wish to be an artefact you safeguard
Within the delicate glass cabinet in your room,
That you procured on the pilgrimage you made,
With the purpose to mirror the sanctity
You would rever for all eternity.
© tamanna3
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#cees_memo_chall @mirakee @carolyns_challenges @writersbay #wordc
Thanks a lot ^_^ @writersnetwork// My mind leafs through the pages
Of my unscripted memoir,
Each chapter smells of burnt roses,
Ignited as a ritual on my demise.
I dust off the ashes
And watch them flutter away,
In the puffs of my moribund breath. //
©tamanna3 -
nehahemaraj
39w
Read MoreLamentations of the sobriety heart,
Laced with sequins and silk,
Scintillae of full stops,
Peep at the trimmed edges,
Echoes of semicolons,
Reverberates in the cavity at the abyss,
Abhorring the holism of cosmos,
Wallowing in the morbid scars,
Pathos intricately woven in the flesh,
Soul exhales the opulent regret,
Swathed in velvet asphyxiation,
But, the blood uniting the bond,
Beseeches the psyche to breathe.
©nehahemaraj
@mirakee @writersnetwork #mirakee #writersnetwork #pod #mirakee_reposter #ceesreposts
#poetry #thoughts #life #death #hope
Image credit to the right owner..
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hear_the_echoes
39w
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