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  • shreyah 3m

    Brown water and a home
    of clay; a little marigold
    gazing at the brightest ray.
    I overheard the lips sipping
    the red, red wine that the
    green town is more than

    A lady working by the
    riverside, fragrance oozing
    off the mustard to festoon a
    bride. I overheard the revels
    staling with passage of time
    that the scented town is more
    than divine.

    Light hearts beating a lighter
    pace, mornings don't sponsor
    the habitual rat race. I overheard
    the tainted welkin envying the
    pious skyline that the peaceful
    town is more than

    ©shreyah || 16-10-21



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    Looking for peace, gulping constant rage.
    My urban mind pines to settle in village.

  • shreyah 2d


    One of those days when I don't feel like writing at all. Will be active soon.

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    Young and Wilted

    I stand against myself with a
    deadpan profile, swallowing
    an awful evening that resists
    to elapse. Perhaps, eighteen
    is an age too vulnerable to
    fall prey to unbidden distress
    and unattended depression.
    The gathering I wilfully walked
    out on, envies my seclusion
    enough to paste a dozen of
    derisions on my already ailing
    self and amidst all the chaos,
    I pretend to lie five feet taller
    and am compelled to feel six
    feet under. I know not if suffer-
    ing is the right word for such a
    fresh age but pain is one to all
    the plights —feeble or severe.
    Some give in or some just
    happen to carve an emotion
    out of it. Certainly, poetry is my
    last hope in times that drag
    me deep into despair.

    ©shreyah || 13-10-21

  • shreyah 1w

    On Indian railways,
    you'll either be caught
    stirring the hot tea of
    politics or relying on
    music; annoyed by a
    baby's cry.

    The ardour of cutting
    onto sleep to not miss
    a single landmark and
    travel less through places
    and more through shades
    of nature has somewhere
    been lost.

    Oftentimes, I wonder
    how elders acquaint
    themselves with each-
    other, digging relations,
    munching on groundnuts
    and peculiarly grumbling
    about cleanliness.

    The like-aged girl before
    me sneaks silent glances
    at me. Perhaps, we are
    yet to learn the art of
    communication because
    sometimes, all you need
    is a strange face and a
    futile conversation in a
    world which is busier than
    the bustle on a railway

    ©shreyah || 06-10-21

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    I travelled away from upsetting voices, unwanted falls.
    They tell me, I didn't learn to travel at all.

  • shreyah 3w

    Meticulous people chant no magical hymns.
    Is it a non-ideal art to sprint with no limbs?



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    ~ D I V E R G E N C E

    I bloomed in the eighth
    month–tiny, tiddly and
    trammelled by kismet,
    failing my race to fit in
    the 'ideal' slot, right at
    the beginning of my trek.
    Albeit my arrival was not
    ideal, I had to be special.

    Growing up has surely been
    hauntingly beautiful–a tinge
    of nightmare, I experienced
    in broad daylight, sequence
    of distortions in the mirror–
    reflections that took time and
    tears for me and a paradigm
    shift for others to embrace.

    I have survived glacial gaze,
    ostracism, imperious sneer
    and a rear view of heavenly
    pilgrimage for I missed my
    limbs in the womb of my
    goddess while trying to ace
    the race that merely holds
    no treasure, no pleasure but
    an ugly core and uglier ethics.

    I adjusted with the world
    which failed to adjust with
    me for I had to master the
    art exclusively made for
    me—an accepted normal
    bereft of normalcy, curiously
    cooling my heels to decrypt–
    "how idealism justify abilities?"

    ©shreyah || 22-09-21

  • shreyah 4w

    Beauty lies in the eyes of beholder

    Dark records, red blisters.
    Prejudice pines to pave its
    path, preferances plunge
    into the depth of waters
    but as long as dead sea
    is alive, you'll stay afloat.

    Sarcastic similes, animals
    personified, equality roars,
    zoomorphism improvised.
    Some days, you're an elephant,
    some days, a giraffe, other days,
    a monkey or obviously, a hippo!

    What blooms beside Eiffel
    is no less than that planted in
    a slum. If only the world turns
    blind for an instance, irrational
    judgements would take a back
    seat and beauty will sail oceans
    to be felt all across.

    Wear a blindfold and erase
    the concepts of inferiority
    and superiority from the
    volumes of your dictionaries.
    At all, if you can, question—
    "Why does beauty lie in
    beholder's eyes and not heart?"

    ©shreyah || 20-09-21

  • shreyah 4w

    A- When the world fights a war
    B- halfway

    #combination #wod

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    F E U D

    Blue sky turns bluer,
    dusk dives, dad arrives,
    water splash, wrong
    vegetables, mom cries,
    dinner dies, argument

    The longer the night, the
    meagre the hope of earnings.
    Sleeping is difficult in towns
    where mornings run home.

    Squirrels break into a quarrel,
    brothers and their spouse,
    one blood, two house,
    ancestral property, raised
    brows, blood red floors,
    sprinting mouse.

    Halfway through a
    mundane day, a death
    and a death sentence.
    The walls wail, coins
    jingle. Who survived?

    When the world fights
    a war, burn the grudges
    and light peace.

    ©shreyah || 19-09-21

  • shreyah 4w

    Clearing the clutter :/

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    Of chaos and convolutions

    It's the end of falls,
    stop pouring, mate!
    I've been waiting
    at the crossroad,
    selling a pastel art,
    palpitations of my
    heart, a few songs
    that hurt, cradling
    stories tucked under a
    Levi's t-shirt. A gaze, so
    restless, lips fastened,
    lungs breathless.
    Feelings and eggs,
    rotting in comfort.
    What else shall I
    put on, a smile?
    Is that enough?
    Isn't it frightening how
    passionately do we
    make these mistakes?
    Defending our peace,
    placing pieces at
    stakes? Porous covers,
    misleading colours,
    over-grown regrets
    crashing over heads,
    bitter desserts following
    the wrecks. What else do
    you crave for, a story you
    could read or a story
    you could lead?

    ©shreyah || 16-09-21

  • shreyah 4w

    I was never a speck of dust
    darting into the unknown void or
    dusting the remnants of pencils
    that broke upon the touch of
    puny papers–coarser than the
    sack, I built my home in.

    I was never a speck of dust
    drifting in dilemma of living and
    dying, cursing the poor standards
    of life but an optimistic wayfarer,
    weaving hues out of achromic
    robe of a firm thread.

    I was never a speck of dust
    demanding space midst the
    expensive atmosphere above
    but a terrestrial kid doodling
    hopes on the eroded edges of
    soil and broken branches of trees.

    I was never a speck of dust
    decorating homes of spiders
    but a gentle nudge, breaking
    borders that inhibit my being.
    I am the entire typhoon willing
    to blow your bragging berets.

    ©shreyah || 16-09-21


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    To people with poor humour,
    I lie beyond your rumours.
    I am not a ripped slip of a 7-star
    but a smile rising out of 7 scars.

  • shreyah 4w

    Tu me manques »

    Of the long days that
    we ran short of in split-
    seconds of gelid summer,
    A part of me awaits you
    sobbing, 'Tu me manques.'

    Of the insouciant days
    that stole smiles off the
    layers of transient tears,
    Static sorrow awaits you
    screaming, 'Tu me manques.'

    Of the pretty little days
    that peep through the
    picture-frame–pastel pale,
    A robbed memory reminisces
    you wailing, 'Tu me manques.'

    Of the jovial, juveline days
    that shoulders brush past
    every week of agile agony,
    A weeping Wednesday runs by
    reminding, 'Tu me manques.'

    ©shreyah || 15-09-21


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    Childhood sank in some pitch-dark abyss,
    there are days in my eyes– I cry for, I miss.

  • shreyah 5w

    When the leaves turn brown
    and the evening cloaks itself in
    black, silent-sepia streets swim
    deep into terror, shoving street-
    lamps to burn in favor of monsters.

    When the leaves turn brown,
    the lady lily withers out of fear
    and cuckoos are asked to thread
    their beaks, hem their feathers and
    let the owls take over their freedom.

    When the leaves turn brown,
    the sunshine permeates into the
    cold, chilling moon's skin, barring
    the darkness from adding another
    crater in its milky, placid territory.

    When the leaves turn brown,
    the breath feels a little too heavier
    than usual and the skies—greyer.
    Certainly, the nature is a lot more
    afraid than a lone lass on a lonely lane.

    ©shreyah || 13-09-21


    Off for a while. *Travelling*

    @writersnetwork Thank you. :")


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    When the circumstances turn lethal,
    why is one asked to be fearful and not fearless?