sahoosmruti

खामोश रात हूं मैं ।

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  • sahoosmruti 5d

    She sings the love songs and somewhere else someone releases the fireflies from the glass jar.She wants to be a poem for a night as she has screamed enough under the mask,sprinkling emotions, raw and justifying the grey despairs over a sheet of paper .Enough of the silence, she has inhaled being a poet. So tonight she would like to be reborn from the naked metaphors of an absolute insane poet .She wants to be born as an elegant firefly to spread v the message of love on the age old inflicted wounds .
    For lacking knowledge in conversing love and turning the pain into fascinating smiles,tonight she just desires to be designed by any other mind,bestowing the creator all the liberties and faith of the universe,she being a blank canvas.
    Oh dear!
    Let me be as delicate as you embrace your beloved, as chaotic as you exhale the bygone memories of your togetherness togetherness,as simple as you love, as complex as your denial .You write love/hatred/anxiety /trauma ,any of the emotions you want .And I promise I will make it mine and be staying above your copyright for eternity and beyond.

    //ନିଦ ଭରା ରାତି,ମଧୁ ଭରା ଜହ୍ନ
    ଫିକା ଫିକା ଏହି ଜୋଛନା
    ତୁମେ ନାହଁ ସାଥେ ଆଜି ଏଇ ରାତି
    ଏକା ଏକା ଭଲ ଲାଗେନା
    ଭଲ ଲାଗେନା //

    ©sahoosmruti

  • sahoosmruti 1w

    How wonderful a pause is that vanishes into a long run silence and stays there.

    Escaping is not a mere occurrence and those who escape are not necessarily escapists for they swallow dead souls walking around in a different horizon. So the questioned decisions provoke certain wordless sentiments in the name of absolute anticipation. Perhaps this is why they bear the joy of silence,measuring pain with tears,slowing down the thoughts of acknowledging the present as a false reality .

    Under the pale neon blue light
    I was asleep with the wind
    until escape came to meet
    and I realised
    all these while what had I been chasing
    was an empty street.

    ©sahoosmruti

  • sahoosmruti 1w

    Music
    once favourite
    feels like noise now
    the lyrics are mere words
    Perfectly designed,
    and I don't know
    whether I find them
    beautiful or not.

    I find my obsession
    ugly
    Yet I couldn't let them die.
    You see,sometimes
    unlove
    becomes so exhausting
    and fragile, that
    you just randomly
    put a full stop to that process
    and choose to carry the wounds
    that way.

    On a writer's block
    someone said that
    I am the queen of metaphors
    and I remained silent
    what I could have revealed
    that day is
    metaphors are the veils
    under which I seek shelter
    for my words
    that don't qualify
    to be considered as poems.

    So these days
    I don't get excited to rant about
    home or love or kindness or compassion
    as that would be
    superfluous exaggeration
    So I write about silence,misery, trauma and void,
    reflecting how the entire
    pain of galaxy
    is less than mine .

    The butterflies
    once beautiful
    may create
    Poetry out of their brokenness
    Here I am an ugly fox
    who often gets blamed
    for it's obnoxious howl .

    ©sahoosmruti

  • sahoosmruti 1w

    I see wings
    in my willingness
    to fly.
    For I know
    no wings
    can take me to the sky.
    ©sahoosmruti

  • sahoosmruti 1w

    For she is an unmitigated lier,don't believe her words.The truth she writes are mere lies and vice versa. So the sporadic ambivalence she pukes, lack the required eloquence to which you might have found screaming for poetic justification. You should not consider that "art".
    In the space between her fingers, she has grown vulnerabilities. Hence it is better if your fingers don't get fit into those gaps .Moreover,you have every right to protect your innocence before investing so much into her and also you may curse her for she being ascertained as a 'dignified disappointment' lately .
    So the offence you are talking of,might not affect her much,for she becomes the one right after some random ones label it as "offensive ".And an unknown entity within her probably loves it being in that zone,ahead of every possible sobriety.
    So the writer,you once adored is a mere morbid who doesn't forget to follow her heart ruthlessly.

    - ill cultured psyche

  • sahoosmruti 5w

    You die yet you live.
    You suffer yet you live.
    Living is important.
    No matter how you do it .
    ©sahoosmruti

  • sahoosmruti 5w

    I kept deteriorating in his sedate ignoration,subtle enough to mould my anxiety into a pathetic calmness and shield my lips with his silence. So I started building a grave out of his utter silence to be faded away into and confine my entire being within an oblivion that has retained only the aroma of his essence . I wanted to melt into his firm conviction of not exchanging a single word , not exchanging silence .
    ©sahoosmruti

  • sahoosmruti 6w

    I wrapped up the chaos while skipping my breakfast every morning, for I had to paint the lonesome December sky with the hues of orange and pitch,replacing the grey .And what I realised is that, some grey don't have any replacement and some hearts always remain colder than the December.
    ©sahoosmruti

  • sahoosmruti 6w

    ସମ୍ପର୍କ ସହ ସମ୍ପର୍କ ଟା ଯେ କେମିତି ମୋତେ ଯେବେ ଯିଏ ପଚାରେ ମୁଁ ତାର ଉତ୍ତର ରଖିପାରେନି । ମୁଁ କଣ ପାଇଁ ତାର ,କେବେ ତାର କାରଣ ଖୋଜିପାଏନି । ମୁଁ ବାସ୍ ଢଳିହେଇଯାଏ ତା ପ୍ରତି , ସବୁଥର ଠୁ ଟିକେ ଅଧିକ ତା ର ହୋଇ ।
    ସମ୍ପର୍କ ଜାଣିପାରେନି ଯେ ତା ନାଁ ଟା କେବଳ କାହାକୁ ତରଳେଇ ଦେଉଥାଏ ମହମ ପରି । ଆଉ ତା ଖବର କେଉଁଠି କିଏ ଟିପିରଖୁଥାଏ ହୃଦୟ ର ଟିପା ଖାତାରେ । ସମ୍ପର୍କ କେବଳ କାହା ସ୍ମୃତି କୁ ନେଇ ଘରଟିଏ ଗଢିବାରେ ବ୍ୟସ୍ତ ଥାଏ । ଏତେ ବ୍ୟସ୍ତ ଥାଏ ଯେ ସେ ଜାଣିପାରୁନଥାଏ ଯେ ତାର ଅନୁପସ୍ଥିତି କୁ ଗୋଟା ପଣେ ବୋଳିହେଇ ,ବେସରମ ଟେ ପରି କେଉଁଠି କିଏ ଜଣେ ଅହରହ ଟାଣିହେଇଯାଉଛି ତା ଆଡକୁ ।
    ମୁଁ ମୋ ନିଜର ଯେତେକି ହେଇପାରେନି , ତା ଠୁ ବି ଅଧିକ ତା ର ହେଉଥାଏ ଆଉ ସ୍ୱପ୍ନ ରେ ମଧ୍ୟ ଗୁଣୁଗୁଣଉ ଥାଏ ସମ୍ପର୍କ କୁ, ଯାହା ଆଖିରେ ଦିଶୁଥାଏ ଆଖିଏ ସ୍ୱପ୍ନ ର ଲହଡି ଆଉ କାହା ପାଦ କୁ ଛୁଇଁଯିବାର ଅପେକ୍ଷାରେ । ଯେଉଁ ଅପେକ୍ଷା ରେ ମୁଁ ନିତି ମରୁଥାଏ ।ଯେଉଁ ଅପେକ୍ଷା ,ମୋତେ ତାକୁ ଭୁଲିବାକୁ ଦିଏନି । ଯେଉଁ ଅପେକ୍ଷା କୁ ଶେଷ ଅପେକ୍ଷା ରେ ପରିଣତ ହେବାରେ ଦେଖିବାକୁ ମୁଁ ଅପେକ୍ଷା କରୁଥାଏ ଅହରହ।

    ©sahoosmruti

  • sahoosmruti 7w

    a poem, atrabilious
    drowned into an arrant adieu
    and an abode afar
    bestrewed into pieces ;
    one more plorific compilation of heartbreak
    was added to the
    existing literature
    and the refurbishment
    in the market
    received ample applause
    for the presentation of the
    cobweb in simplest manner
    and turning it into the final good
    for consumption
    with best of the packeging
    and a market retail price on it .

    mind with
    Plumblesss tales
    has lambent melancholic disdain
    behind the fear of judgements
    it does not chase
    a best selling tag
    at the initiation of ingenuity
    Art never settles for
    marketing strategy
    or acts as a business unit
    Or seeks profit
    it always settles for
    a disequilibrium
    something unexplainable
    for an aching annihilation
    Looking for unbotheredness
    and a cigarette
    a pen
    a mind , expensive & not
    nervous .
    ©sahoosmruti