safflower

(^~^;)ゞlleweraf

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  • safflower 15w

    "He who spares the wicked injures the good"
    ~Seneca

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    Count on

    Wind blows away
    some saffron kites
    With blue stripes
    While you knot straight threads
    Of eclipsing shadows
    Into asymmetrical ends
    Nothing remains in your hands
    But in cosmos

    Beneath bizzare skylights
    Behind closed doors
    You run into nothingness
    And chase no kite
    For it discovers the surface to fall
    And you will refuse to fly
    But never to fall
    Perhaps something else will hold on
    Maybe you unlearn to chase
    But what if you run


    "A string will never depart
    Within two ends of height and depth"
    The sky and your hands are blue
    Alike vagabond and aimless walk
    You heard of picasso and cubes
    Perhaps art will never hold grudge
    Maybe your sink in bottomless abyss
    But what if you fly


    "Origami flights aren't fearless,
    They leave behind every thing
    That rides it but never flew
    It won't carry the flaws nested in you
    For all wings don't stand blue
    But they shall not crash
    the skylight & the closed door

    Paper planes must fly
    Near to sanity
    With no parameters of altitudes,
    Nothing weighs down the air
    Nothing weighs down the flight
    Count on your fall
    and then count on the kites and planes
    Count on the blues for
    "Every fear leapt away to settle down
    Somewhere else"

    ~Nida

  • safflower 16w

    Turning points?
    Mistaken sire!

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    Dead end.

    My throat withholds the sickness
    that slips to a corner
    while seducing some rotten epilogues
    the parchment paper is dusted,
    For there are more assumptions
    and less clarification in my sky
    But it rains within monsoon
    For the domain knows how terror
    Scotches,sulks and gulps
    the entire territory

    My head is flaky
    like scrape of last dough
    Scratch the fences around
    hooke all unconditional variables
    For naked walls wither;
    They don't stand with
    Screw & bolts
    To have paranoid with
    Hanging memories
    Past is the only constant
    layered by my bones
    Brittle and hollow

    My skin has burn marks,
    fissures between my fingers
    Save yourself from darkness
    Before it occupies you with
    abstract patterns
    That can't be cloned.
    Scaled are venomous creatures
    They chomp and swallow
    Before you hide and walk
    Crooked teeth visit smiles
    Often in flickering lonliness
    "Bleed ,bleed and die"

    The sky will evident the crime
    But sinful prints will sway away
    With grey clouds or red lanes
    And they say
    "The same feathers fly in flocks
    and same skin huddles"
    The origin crosspoints the vertix
    For some backyard soils
    Can't sculpture tenderness
    But hid the bodies and eat the corpses
    For all tears don't hit the funeral


    ~Nida

  • safflower 18w

    Ranting with c/old lines.

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    Tropical modesty

    See how cold wind utters those fragile dew drops, chill blown,when a numb hearth is dripped warm blood over some stained glass ,and still cultivates modest road where we walked down in myth of togetherness, and now I stumble across lane where brimming street light has blurred tropical trees in darkness,it seems some hearts are broken to walk drunk.


    Tears either dry before ink fades in those diaries, or rises like highest waves of ocean past the sand that doesn't hold the person/water but in memories,and it seems you find solace in some philosophy sung at grave of hope,by a nomad, hopless with paper towns in their smoked pockets.

    It mostly turns home when we search as tenants, in some heart like the journeys are supposed to chose the destination,and you reside inside walls,caged and closed to escape from solitude-a trap : pillared hollow as dilemma before you end writing the bitterness of love that you named as a reason to smile, laugher,that echoed down rooftops,where you meant to light the chimneys today?
    they burn and burn but not like fireworks in skies!
    Love is hardly a hell,or storehouse of heaven!



    ~Nida

  • safflower 19w

    Rant.

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    Loop-shuffle; play!

    Shuffles of ninety's and twenty's are modern classic or I say confused.they are retro and aesthetics altogether,
    oneness is sickness porridge.

    There lies question behind every breath.
    And the answers are as far as a dim light of a catastrophe revolving in the universe
    Pre assume measures of the reality
    Is spoon fed "a delicate souffle rose & forked down"newspaper never roared while I sleep unaware of trauma, of
    rebellious, revolts,wars and death,
    All sync of stormy,anguish and end.

    Someone's presence could be shorter like the space between a two syllable word,but memories are as long as the distance between two poems. Self made disasters as too much of smoke, for lungs,soaked in tar and charcoal,so better dig them a grave.

    Wines and bars should shut on footsteps of a sadist for they trade in numbness not in pain.The nostalgia in air knows where to carry me, away from sanity,near home,
    for cynical storms and neon flickering lights
    Kites and coldplays
    Paper planes and daydreams
    Are meant to stay in different skies,where maybes will run to or might stop or maybe not.




    -Nida