I was the fallen one among those Chilliad stars But somebody made a constellation Under the sky, Within those four walls..! While my finger waltz through those Ivory keys And those speaker chords breezed cool zephyrs and aromated harmony Echoed L-O-V-E -M-Y-S-E-L-F And hugged emotional ardour gently Reflecting my own mug on Those mirror (heart) moulded with Love The fence framed seven pieces of my whole heart BTS×ARMY=7
I m no more a fallen STAR But one who slained SCARS- --scars being slained by them--
JUST ONE DAY I can't live without 'Imagining your face' I NEED YOU to SAVE ME from the WAR OF HORMONE so please STAY with me forever !
Just a lame try ! Baked in 3minutes I m not good at poetry
My 2nd Pod I'm extremely happy... Thank you so much @mirakee and all beautiful souls who read this❤️(alphabets are lucky for me) _________________________________________ Appraisals, arise and awake to appreciate apostrophes which belongs to beguiling sky of brewing bruises.
Confidence, comprises canister of coruscant commands to delineate dilemmas of one's heart and mind.
Eternity, elaborates essence of forevers, the forbidden forevers fabricated to be forgotten.
Gratitude, graceful greeting for the gallant efforts which are put in hibernating hopes of heartbroken home.
Imperfections, irreplaceable inheritance which (in)complete(s) me with juvenescent joy justifying my self worth.
Kaleidoscope: knits, kindles and erase distance between longing souls and love liberates longings to luminate life with serenity.
Meditation: mastering my morales with discipline and concentration where nestling nostalgia nullify and present joy invades me.
Optimism overflows from the opulent outline of beliefs where one Practices principles of preaching persistence.
Quintessence: quipping quality of reflecting (im)perfections, where Renaissance revive to reconcile reverberation of last birth, and Sanguine sunsets hold saffron sky To teach time the value of itself by the hands of treasured tomorrows, and Ushering universe utters the epilogue written by the last breathe of today.
Voracious vehemences welcomes wisdom by following xper Xena's.
Youth yearn for bright future and you yourself are the pride, zestful zephyr of enthusiasm blows within you to exemplify life for the zillionth time.
Why is it that he always bleeds As the night descends? There are places he yearns to be, But he ends up with his words On his desolate fingers Every single time the moon blooms, He bleeds into inebriation, The storms pay reverence to his poetry, And so do beggars on their plates, And mothers in their dreams.
They’ll take you to the clouds, his words, In dark corners and empty corridors, In fires and in the bloodiest woods - Even if it is a trance, the beauty in intoxication, You must allow yourself to drown In his words and fly in his seasons, You must brew up an imagination Without the fear of being questioned, It all is in the words, and those oceans, But you must dare to claim, firstly.
With all the scents that fill up the Smoke in the room, he bleeds, All night, under the temple of The Moon, He attempts to reach the next daylight, And somehow along the way, The scarlet blood of his bleeds In which he found hope, To make it to the next day, Hurts him now, alike a wound - How can something that delivers Hope into candles to keep flaming hurt?
He tries hard to escape words, The parts of poetry that heals seagulls Now reside in the air, hanging - He needs something more, something concrete, But its too vague in the head to Find the tune to start with, It’s too empty a place - Films, stars, prayers, fireworks? He endeavours every of these domains, Every night he begins to drift to bleeding And hunt out no solace, no solitude in any - He beholds an image from the future, A blurry portrait of a heavy meal to consume, A war to fight, a lot to endure, a lot to come, But for now, it hurts, just a little too much, When it bleeds, But nevertheless, it does happen, Every single night, with every single drink.
I first saw a glimpse of you in grade 6, one afternoon in my English class, inside four pages of your diary in our textbook. Something was stirred in me that day, I was curious about a girl who confided in paper, never knowing she will be heard for ages to come.
In grade 10, somewhere in the corner of a library, I found a maroon coloured worn out book on the cover of which I found a girl, looking at me with a smile. I felt I found a treasure that day, one that will change many things in me.
As I met you inside those pages, a more vulnerable, scared, brave, funny you, I found a friend. Your stories warmed my heart, your fears haunted me too, and with every turning page I saw you, living, breathing, laughing, muffling your cries on a pillow, I saw you.
Many times I imagined what those years would have been like, inside walls of a permanent fear of getting caught, holding on to that fragile piece of hope that one day war will end, and there will be sunshine on your skin , a clear sky above. I imagined you sitting in your attic, aware of all whats happening behind those blackout curtains, unaware of what your future held, with a pen in hand and a diary on your lap, writing how much you want to become a writer. How will you ever know that you became one, a special one, the one who gave voice to 6 million Jews who lost their lives for the sake of human cruelty. I imagined you peeking through the window at night, on a dead city under moonlight, and I wonder what you thought at that moment.
You made me start journaling, for the mere reason of being able to tell, things that needs words, not people. You made me stand in bright sunlight and savour the sunbeams, to take delight in the beauty of the sky, to feel gratitude for this mundane but colourful life. I've read authors who were great, their words moved me too but I want to say that you Anne Frank will always hold a special place in my heart. With love just_words_
When I die like a flickering summer, lay my sins on a bed of mercy sprinkled with rose water flowing from the angels' fountain, the nightingale shall sing no sad hymns, no soul shall weep, for my departure isn't a death sentence nor a dead-end.
In a grave where daisies and petunias touch the amber skies and play hide & seek with the lemon sun I yearn for eternal rest,
Wrap my flesh in silk forgiveness, in my grave plant prayers & lavenders together with anecdotes and poems, pin a profound epitaph, engrave a Chronicle of this spectacular journey, my pilgrimage from Womb to Tomb.
I do not know how many more words I could write before it becomes some bleak lines that barely make sense to any. It is as if they collapse one after another as you try to figure out how they all fit into the two am nights of summer. The world is burning, you can feel it in the air, wind burning everything that it touches. I remember standing at the door of an autumn eve, letting the wind whisper its secret crush on the dandelions. How it kisses her and makes her fly, writing a beautiful eulogy in the end. Things have been different lately, there is too much death when the world falls deaf. The death you can't romanticize about.
You turn off the AC and go back to the familiar creek of the fan from the ceiling. There is a sense of solitude as the world falls quiet for a moment in that darkness, I wish I knew how to write about the world, the world that I feel in that transient moment of solitude. How do you know what it is that you're feeling or the why?
I've read somewhere that, to understand free will you must understand the difference between making your decisions and predicting your decisions. I do not know what it means. But there is something so poignant about it, the helplessness of merely existing. Helplessness when the words fail to fall into the right place as you try hard to fix a few lines to tell a story.
You miss rain on a day like this, the first raindrop splattering on the broken twigs as roots slowly drown into the soil for a new life, a new beginning as if someone just hit a reset button. There is a sense of home in the emanating petrichor from the first rain that hits your skin. I do not know what it carries; sadness or happiness or longing for a familiar touch.
You talk in the strangest times, about things that keep flooding your mind. Of all the seasons you romanticized about, how you always hated the summer. But, I've always loved the way how you talk about rain. Of all the people that you ever loved who never knew how to love you back, I wonder if anyone ever danced with you in heavy rain. Why do you love rain? Is it the subtle sadness it brings on a sunny day? You always had a thing for melancholy, or is it the way it touches your skin in a way that no one ever did? Does it burn when it kisses your summer scars?
The pursuit of happiness is a lie if you ask me, if you want to feel the world, you need to take it all in. From the way the flower blooms, how it gently open its petals to see the beauty of the world, to how it slowly burn and wither away into the soil as if it was never there. If I could I would've told you all about it, about how to feel the world, bit by bit, word by word.
But there are words caught in our throats, tightening its grip every time you try to speak. So you disappear in the middle of a story when the world falls asleep, it is as if you were never there. You wish you could understand this, how everything becomes so disconnected at nightfall, even when it burns, even when it drowns. How you run out of words, run out of sound, run out of places, and engulfed in a melancholy. As if you're wandering through the woods after a heavy rain, barefoot, breaking free of all the silent sighs, not lost but never wants to be found.
You can feel the silence between the lines, around the curls on your favorite book that you keep coming back to, around the edges of the words, a silence someone left behind. But you can't quite figure out why you feel that slight melancholy even when it all feels so disconnected.
There is sadness in the silence, the silence between one word and another. There is sadness emanating from the trees, from the leaves, from the birds, from the chimes of a window where a widow weeps. You can feel it everywhere.
will you stay, near the shoreline of my obsolescence, when the summer bide a little longer?
what do you call a river when it dries up is it still a river or just, another reminiscence?
like a poet without the words, a city without the crowd. dust descends into the voids and it becomes a memory, to history to another story and you forget.
this season will wither away into a bare minimum of existence. you and I will be nothing but dust, drifting between places and time.
but will you stay a little longer for a summer rain? to survive another drought, to drown in another flood? will you stay this time?
/Paper plane of happiness/ There goes a paper plane swirling and racing away with the butterflies. It tore the air which scattered, falling down like the confetti and touched the cheeks of that happy little kid. It reminded him of the paper plane decoration from his last birthday he spent with his grandparents. He wore the smile drenched in memories, they left behind for him and felt proud of himself for making a perfect plane almost like the one his grandpa once flew and the one he dreams of flying some day.
/Paper plane of despair/ There goes a paper plane made of half burnt paper, actually a letter. Which held a few heartbroken words, “Promise me that you'll take care of yourself and keep smiling even when I won't be there around, when I'll be gone in the stars.” The plane and her signature with a doodled heart beside was saved from the flaring flames. The plane bearing heaviness of tears and a freshly painted heart, crashed far before escaping the atmosphere and her daughter yelled, “I hate you, mom, for not accepting my this heart either. I swear I would've looked better than you among the stars!”
/Paper plane of love/ There goes a paper plane wreathed with petals and thorns in unison. It flew gracefully with the cool breeze of winter, flew among the warm sunflower fields in summer and got soaked in drizzle and petrichor of monsoon. It went knocking on her windowpane and she let it in. Opening it, she found a love cladded half written poem. She pondered upon every single beautiful thing she has ever come across just to find appropriate feelings and not just words and completed the poem. She was never a poet but love made her one. They weren't any lovers of poem but she made them so.
/Paper plane of hate/ There goes a paper plane remained behind, made out of forgiveness unlike the stack of planes made out of hate which were threw with displeasure. Many reasons to hate but a single reason to forgive, the only way to get atleast some of the lost peace. The forgiving last plane gently pushed into the sky, left a half rainbow like curve on his face. And over a few inches, the crashed planes of hatred got buried under his feet. Those decomposed into nothingness and the other one reached his enemy, who smiled for a moment for recognising a plane made by his once friend.
/Paper plane of hope/ There goes a paper plane crossing a bridge and reached a wrecked soul standing on its edge. It was just another letter undelivered, from a teenage daughter to her parents. She had wrote words drowned in holy waters of hope for them. Reading the lines, “No matter what I'm here for you. Everything will be fine.” a feeling of deja vu rose in his chest and he stepped back to recall a scene occurred few hours ago. He ran home clutching the plane tight, slammed the door open to see his parents standing there with the same two lines in their eyes since yesterday night. A paper plane and hope, both made their ways into his heart.
/Paper plane of a writer/ There goes a paper plane made by a writer. Adorned with an unwritten story on each crease. Some laughed while some cried who couldn't make a perfect one but atleast tried. Like a writer they felt how important a piece of paper can be. They all saw something in it what no one else could see. Never knew a thin sheet can hold happiness, despair, love, hate, hope and other feelings left untold, cold.