sagacious_miss

Tag me as #tanzread I speak fluent poetry. ����

  • sagacious_miss 18w

    Title - If my poem were a woman.

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    Women are a piece of art.
    They say,
    "Keep your body, soul and Everything else pure, sweetheart."
    Little do they know my poem, too, is an art.
    The rhymes try to reconcile the broken pieces of me, that have fallen apart.

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    i) If my poem were a woman, she would have struggled to position itself into that hourglass figure,
    She would have struggled to look like that of perfect size and shape.

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    ii) My poem would have tried hard to conceal.
    Conceal the insecurities, the fears and the miseries, that wet her pillow each night. But she'll be cautious about the slipping bra strap shining under the bright sun light.

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    iii) Poems will shed tears of blood and agony.
    Stocked up Tampons and pads will fill up the room, darkening her heart. For she'll be restrained from entering the literature room.

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    iv) Racism would have haunted my poem. That feeling of suffocation, would have made it a choice to live or to die. Searching for the last hope to breathe and still finding none.

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    v) My poem would have been questioned about it's existence and remained mum. Those dark circles depict the pain which It masked with metaphors also brushed with highlighter like similes.

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    vi) Rapes would have been a threat to her body, just like plagiarism is a threat to poetry.

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    But I'm afriad what if it disappears all of a sudden... into nothingness, into vaccum.

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    © Sagacious_Miss


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  • sagacious_miss 19w

    When and why do I write?

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    I just scribble ten thousand thoughts of my mind, into an unorganized manner.

    *S-I-L-E-N-C-E*

    I'm naive with words, naive with pen and paper, but not naive to this world, not to the miseries. Hence, I write.

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    1. I write when, I want to release myself of all the bondages. When the air mixes up with suffocation, it's hard to breathe, I turn my pen and paper as oxygen. Inhale and Exhale.

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    2. I write when, that little self - esteem of mine shatters into thousand pieces. I pick up words and glue it with my heart trying to fix it.

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    3. I write, because, I feel I'm nowhere. I feel being a forever patient to solitude and experience an uneven vacancy. I write to cherish a company.

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    4. I write beauce nostalgia has never been kind to me. Those memories with not so constant people shatters my soul. I write to escape the memories.

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    5. Last but not the least, I write to survive. Survival has always been tough when you are adulting, but writing down my pain gives me solace.

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    So I write, for myself more and less for anybody else.

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    © Sagacious_Miss

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  • sagacious_miss 19w

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  • sagacious_miss 20w

    Is it necessary to hate someone to move on?

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    Remember the day you were standing infront of the mirror blushing like a red rose bud, talking to yourself, "Oh damn dude! You are in love. See the brightened up face."

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    Everything seemed to be a bed of roses, his constant attention was the only thing you craved, you valued him more than the barren land values the rain.

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    Alas! But he left,
    He left you in the middle of the road, between the cars and the trucks blaring at you. And you bursted into a fit of anger.

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    Then follows the cycle of depression and self harm. Attempts after attempts you try erase the memory of days, weeks and years spent together, but all in vain.
    You try to build a trap to hate the person which you valued so much, and eventually you succeed.. you hate him more than barren land hates the sun, because it has been heated up for months and years now.

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    Let the bygones be the bygones... This phrase sounds easy to implement and so it.. just pre condition that a bit of courage is needed.
    Courage to understand that "You matter." You need to learn to respect the absence of the person in your life and move ahead with a void which eventually will be filled by somebody else who'll bring extra pints of lager to love.

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    Moving on means to live in present holding onto the lessons from past and building up a radiant future.. But also remember, the barren land never loses hope .. it will continue to wait for the rain to drench it's thirst...

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    © Sagacious_Miss


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  • sagacious_miss 20w

    Pain, has been my second home for a century now. I have been living in blues and greys all over. My skin has been red, blood dripping over my bathroom floor, filling up the bath tub, turning it red, while the faucet drips water to dilute the red, while I smoke the fumes of misery.


    © Sagacious_Miss

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  • sagacious_miss 20w

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  • sagacious_miss 21w

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  • sagacious_miss 21w

    I hold my pen with utmost decency,
    Scribbling something over the sheets of paper that have stains of blood all over.

    My brain plays with words,
    While I narrate my story.
    For there is something that unnerves me,
    I move my quivering hand to form curves over the sheets of paper,
    Writing down metaphors.

    While my words lie naked,
    Just covered by a sheet of adulterated emotions.
    For my conscious thoughts flow as an ink,
    People, fathom the depth of my blues, by deciphering the metaphors that I bleed.

    But little can they fathom the thoughts of my unconscious mind, for it never speaks,
    For it never demands my pen to write about it.

    Unadulterated emotions lie there,
    Deep under the sheets of unconsciousness,
    Not decorated with metaphors and rhymes.

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    © Sagacious_Miss


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  • sagacious_miss 21w

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  • sagacious_miss 21w

    �������������������� - �� ���������������� ���� �������������� �������� ���������� ������ �� �������� ��������.

    Melancholy and I crossed ways long time back, I do not remember the place.
    Nor do I remember the date or the time.
    But melancholy felt like home,
    And you know when poets leave their home physically, their mental self is still stuck in frabjous fragrance of their lurky bedroom.

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    My teenage was spent under the penumbra of melancholy, perhaps my important trait of me back then. I remember the dusk and the dawn when we kissed each other vehemently. We walked down the streets, emptied bottles at the bar. I remember me and melancholy making love under the blanket, and the only witness is my wet pillow which apparently dried before the sun was up. Melancholy was the best company to the tears in my eyes.

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    But now, that sadness is not prolonged. It visits me as a pesky guest every now and then.
    We no longer walk down the street nor we empty bottles at the bar.
    But yes, melancholy is still an important part of me, and I will write about it, always.

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    �� ����������, ���� ������������ �������� �� ���������� ����������.

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    © Sagacious_Miss

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