◆It's easy to be a critic what's difficult is to make poetry...◆ IG- @written.the.merrier

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  • simran2315 61w

    /A Wardrobe Malfunction/

    I was like the raven blazer
    skinned upon your arms,
    that made them curl THEIR noses
    & twist THEIR brows.
    They proclaimed that our creases
    were plated the wrong way,
    So I crawled deep inside your closet,
    hiding from their scrutinising gazes.

    Maybe they're correct.
    Maybe I'm an afterthought.
    I but remember your blushed ears,
    matching the crimson of my filigree.
    The strawberry smudged over my corners,
    and your cocoa dipped fingerprints,
    brushed over my sleeve, now dried.
    Wasn't I, your best wardrobe malfunction?

    You think I'm far,
    I'm but just a cabinet away.
    Hang my skin next to your tailored suit,
    and put my ironed smiles in your pocket.
    Watch over my silk threads
    entangled in the seam of your cufflinks.
    And mould that chiselled leftover ecstasy,
    of my cartilage into petals,
    pinning them up
    to the collar of your tuxedos.

    Oh, I wish I could stretch myself
    when they accused you
    of growing out of me.
    I wish I could tailor
    those mundane patches to my frills,
    and erase my contours to suit you more,
    to suit them.

    But I know how perfectly I embraced
    your shoulders & pectoral,
    how I lay between
    the drumming of your heart,
    And the wrinkles of your palm.

    I know my lost buttons still lay
    in your back pocket, slumbering
    over serenades we once sang.
    I know you like black ties & painted nails,
    that you adore wrapping rainbows & rings.
    But don't you shred your skin for me,
    or them.
    Don't you cut & braid your fabric
    to befit their sizes.
    For you aren't some rented dress.

    I wish you leap into your own golden sunshine.
    and never scramble your bones,
    like pieces of a lost puzzle,
    for I reckon how much you adore your imperfection.

    So next time when you pull out
    your new prussian robe,
    and you find your fingers
    trembling with THEIR echoes,
    just trace its collar for a strand of my fleece,
    and dip your fingertips into that old scent.
    The old scent of our bones & hearts,
    that we vowed to fiddle with,
    till eternity.
    Well, aren't some eternities
    but a blink of an eye?

    I know that you yearn to wear me
    over your heart,
    but some dresses are meant to stay back in the closet.


    •Brainstormed: The Blazer☮

    @writersbay @mirakee @writersnetwork #writersnetwork

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  • simran2315 62w

    The Ride.

    I slam my fist at the ticket counter and turn,
    you are on your knees,
    propping the yellow tulips between your fingers,
    squinting at me, smiling.
    My fist relaxes,
    my eyes dart around as the pinball machine
    striking hurdles - to your eyes, your fingers, your ripped jeans, the folded crease of your T-shirt above your belt, nearly vanishing as you straighten up.
    I blink, forming an o with my lips, kicking myself as I see the porcelain vase in your other hand.
    I remember my first smash at the basketball game, you smell like that euphoria.
    Those gifted brains say - Time slows down when the gravity increases.
    I happen to nudge the hourglass, all grains of sand levelled. The mirages must be so alluring, deflecting you away from the anguish of the appetite.
    You lay the tulips inside the tinted vase, like joining the two lost pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I kick myself for reckoning it all so late and shuffle my eyes awkwardly. You park the vase softly, like stroking the veins upon a lush green canvas, that all my distress escaped into oblivion.
    I am a Sylvia Plath person, but her poems were fogged today in the sheen corners of your chiselled face.
    I try to peek into the pages inside, but you blink and gaze away and I confess today, that I am a terrible reader. You ruffle your raven strands dipping to your shoulder bone, and I finally came to know, why they vacate their homes to surge upon those lethal tides.
    I blink trying to remember the last glimpse of myself at my mirror. I fix my rustic apparel.
    "Actually..."You thrust your hands into your pocket, kicking a pebble swiftly.
    "I eavesdropped that you wanted a front seat on the roller coaster ride."
    You blink looking around charmingly.
    Damn, you have a voice akin to winds announcing rains, a voice I could tape and play as the climax to my playlist of the Beetles and the Queens.

    Do you ever find so much perfection in someone, that you yearn to trace their flaws, just to somehow idolize those too?

    I rewind your words, I suddenly remember why I was so mad at the ticket counter. Yes, I am a thirsty cliff-hanger introvert, rebelling for the front seat on the ride.
    "We can swap our tickets if you want?" You ask raising your left brow, your lips curving on another side.
    There's a sudden flip in my stomach.
    'Infatuation! 'the devil on my shoulder snorts polishing his horns.
    I shoo him off.
    Exchanging tickets- like exchanging books, like exchanging anecdotes and life.
    I pause my mind, and the introvert in me shook my head in denial, to him.
    I whack my brain for picturing us locking hands, bartering envelopes of infinite memories.
    You arch your face, startled at my unexpected refusal.
    Oh, so much I wish, to make you sit, listing to you and myself, the reasons- that how exchanging the ticket will hasten the clock, and this moment will be over. ( I know it is meant to.) We will part, flying in different troops, and I will turn my head to you, merging into the whiffs of fumes exhaled over the dying firewood. And how a mere ticket will take me to a stranger ruffling his hair.

    But it's just a ticket, isn't it? and it's just me- just another stone etched in the pavement, oh but what if you stumble upon it and fall. And I am scared to lend you my trembling hand, what if you jerk it off on discerning the dents under the coils of my fingerprints.

    I know how suffocating is to braid that infinite blanket of possibilities, wanting our suns to eclipse, even for a flash, and then for another, and another.

    I know how tiring it is to stiff your neck, to the dark north sky and rehearse your wishes waiting for the brightest star to drop.
    You ask again, with the same cocktail of the Beetles and the Queens in your voice, and I deny as before, with the same absurd list of reasons in my mind. My infatuation fades, and I begin to scribble the closing to your handsome clause in my book.
    You chuckle at my denial, I cross my arms, perplexed.
    You turn and flash your ticket at the counter. "Hey, could you please exchange this for the chair next to him?"
    The pencil slips from the rifts of my fingers, the basketballs ricocheting my Adam's apple. You want me for a while, I am flipping glossaries to define this noun, and you shut them close, adoring the dents over my fingertips.
    So, I'm holding to my ignorance and oblivion of knitting and stargazing, this time. I'm a sucker for thrillers, after all.

    Can you just want somebody for just a single ride, just for a while, just one game, just one life?

    @writersnetwork @writerstolli @mirakee @readwriteunite @writersbay

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    The Ride

    {Read story in the caption}


  • simran2315 63w

    /Brainstormed: memories; you/

    I have those urns of time,
    often sliding from the side of my belly. And I keep bracing 'em up.
    Down they slide and Up, I yank 'em again.

    I have my knees squeezed to my chest,
    I'm waiting, alone,
    for the whirling vodka bottle to halt,
    losing the count of times its mouth
    hadn't pointed at me.
    A thankful fool.

    I have waves of ink rippled on the stray leaves,
    and those 50 verses, graphited amidst those waves,
    and the diamonds laying low in that graphite,
    and the recollections flickering from those diamonds.
    To a friend.
    A very dear friend, perhaps.

    I have my elbows perched upon the guardrails,
    and the night sky doesn't fiddle with our memories,
    nor the mist of the eve reads me our scrapbooks.
    It's when the moonlight clouds my existing blueprint,
    and the raindrops burdens upon so arduously,
    flooding me,
    that I breaststroke upwards to the sky, drowning myself,
    to the bedrocks at the same time,
    and for a flash, I hallucinate of you,
    you, leaning forth to me
    you, extending me your hand.
    I am a terrible mate.

    Isn't there nothing you want to tell me...

    (The dodgeball, the sweaty hands,
    empty refills and lost erasers,
    preserved pencil shavings,
    and ripped pockets choked on creased wrappers.
    And that compass I keepsake in my rucksack,
    And the perfect spirals from those pointed compasses.)

    I have my fingers, playing an upside note,
    and we're toasting another glass,
    in a multiverse.
    I am anxious to confront you today
    without our memories patrolling me.
    And if we ever play the telephone roulette again,
    wouldn't we be running out of things
    we could say to ourselves?
    Astrophysicists are geniuses.

    I have my feet soaked by the coast,
    and we are crouching
    on the nooks of a no man's land,
    (You might even possess a fishing rod)
    No one is at fault, no one is to condemn.
    I am but lathered in a bizarre grief
    of not parking my fingers
    in the intersections of that half-written book.
    I hate losing my bookmarks. (and you know that)

    I have my breaths being spewed into balloons
    We had a bunch of helium balloons, do you reckon?
    Its strings now a part of my skin.
    I know you also have 'em tucked
    still somewhere in your tunic belt.

    Isn't there nothing you want to tell me...

    (The defrosting flowers, the melting smiles,
    the seventh summer and smudged tunics.
    The chalk dust on those smudged tunics,
    and the wind blowing that chalk dust apart.
    The whispers of change in that wind,
    and the urge to come back in those whispers.
    The urge to come back, Arrggghhh but the priorities!
    but the preferences,
    but the growing up,
    but the life- happening.
    The life, the new roads,
    and the fitted black dress,
    the crossed legs- sipping the red wine, and thumb-fighting with some new hands.
    New hands, trimmed and white,
    holding cameras, saving polaroids.
    New hands.
    Did I forget to drop in your inbox with my rusty fingers? )

    I don't remember you so often.
    it's rare.
    it's rare as an eclipse.
    You whack me from nowhere amidst a pillow fight,
    ruffling feathers now slumber on the floor,
    we flocked, didn't we?

    It's rare as an eclipse,
    I jump off from the hamster wheel
    and gawk,
    to the oblivion, I have puffed out.
    That scent of recalling in the oblivion
    and my mind intoxicated to that scent.
    Those reels playing in my mind,
    your flashing gums in those reels,
    your tossed up spectacles over those flashing gums,
    and your eyes morse coding behind those spectacles.
    My terror of failing to decipher your morse codes,
    Us, making memories over that terror.
    Us, living life, over that terror.
    us laughing (laughed)

    I have slipped the earthenware on the ground.
    the gravels dispersing around from those broken urns,
    the speckles of our memories soaked into that gravel.
    That longing of reminiscence in those speckles,
    and those verses cooing in that longing...
    coveting to be heard, craving to be danced upon.
    can you hear 'em, old sport?

    Is there still nothing you wanna tell me...?


    #picturec @writersnetwork @writersbay @mirakee @readwriteunite #fallingc

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    Brainstormed: Memories; You


  • simran2315 64w

    The caelum's calling you too often,
    calling back to me, but don't you listen!

    The twilight's blushing with a crimson burn,
    for you to meet me, but don't you discern!

    The mirror's opening portals glistening so much,
    leading you to me, but don't you touch!

    For there is this perpetual you, and a constant me,
    oh, but we're such an ephemeral 'us'.


  • simran2315 64w

    He's half my soul, as the poets say
    - Madeline Miller, The Song of Achilles

    I freaking love this book!!! Up for discussions!

    #ubuntuc @writersnetwork @writersbay @readwriteunite @mirakee

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    / A D e l i n e a t i o n /

    He's the half of my soul, as poets say.
    those sharp corners of that half,
    he's that skin lanced by those sharp corners,
    those raw fingers fondling that skin,
    that pen between those fingers,
    that dribbing ink from that pen.
    that prussian of that dribbing ink
    that ocean at rims tinted by that prussian,
    he's that crust, making out with that ocean at rims.
    He's those fallen leaves embracing that crust,
    the serenades, those fallen leaves toast to spring,
    that rhyming in that serenade,
    those feet tapping to that rhyme,
    he's that applause to those tapping feet.
    He's the longing for that applause,
    that despair in that longing,
    that gullet, choking on that despair,
    those gasping cries of that choked gullet,
    he's that patch of air gasped in those cries.
    He's those specks of dust on my lips in that patch of air,
    those ions in those specks of dust,
    that clapping of clouds on the clashing of those ions,
    that wrath of Zeus in that clapping of clouds,
    that curse immortal in that wrath of Zeus.
    that prestige, hidden in that immortal curse,
    he's that grieving in that prestige,
    He's the life that happens in that grief,
    that appetite that kindles life,
    that rain shower to that appetite,
    he's that wildfire trespassing that rain shower.
    He's that winged Phoenix born from that fire,
    the sky that theatres for that Phoenix,
    that gush of wind waltzing with the sky,
    those dandelions that kiss that wind,
    he's that part of my soul, that blows the dandelions.
    He's that sliver of my soul...
    he's THAT half, of my the poets say.


  • simran2315 65w

    I want to do a waltz dance...����❤����
    And I wish I were a cat...

    @writersbay @mirakee @writersnetwork @readwriteunite

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    Look, how the moon is catching me watch you,
    Look, how the moon is falling for you too.
    Oh the things this starlight is doing to my heart,
    Let's be merry till morning do us apart.

    Let's hear the serenades that the stars tune,
    look how the wind is waltzing with the moon,
    for this dusk is delightful and is grande,
    So may I too have your precious hand...


  • simran2315 65w

    /Underworld Shenanigans/

    I am floating in a crimson froth,
    fenced by abandoned crucifixes,
    propping my elbow
    on the mounds of withered white roses,
    its rotten cologne scenting like them.

    I am fiddling with my split fingers,
    the chords of the rusted lyre,
    (made with my skin and bones)
    cooing serenades of travesty and
    hymns of forgotten and deceased.

    I smirk as the satan traces the word
    L-I-F-E over my bare spine,
    sucking my purpled scapula,
    reminiscing me of the stale tinted scars,
    on sleeves of my torn skin.

    He tries to stroke my insides,
    reincarnating the cadaver of the old me,
    that lies in the cemetery of my heart.
    And I shoo him away,
    soothing myself into the temple of bones.

    I drench my scarf with the scarlet of my lips,
    intoxicating on the metal of my dappled blood,
    feasting on it with my swollen taste buds.
    And I scream once again, on its taste,
    on how it trickled from my wounds...

    I scream though none of my scabs is lent by them.
    Maybe I was too whole
    for their half hearts and swords,
    So I severed myself before they could glaze their fingers,
    with the light of my flickering halo.

    The hell is empty, I have lured all the devils here,
    shackled them in my ribcage,
    Smothering them with the poison,they went fetching for me,
    becoming the hell, they dreamt of forging for me.


    Coz #Halloween is near...

    @mirakee @readwriteunite @writersnetwork @writersbay #writersbay

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    The hell is empty,
    I have lured all the devils here...

    [Read the caption]


  • simran2315 65w

    My not-so-childish feelings coming out as childish rhyme.����������❤

    Stray thoughts, nostalgic sanity and flooded eyes.
    Isn't that what #mirakee for?

    @writersbay @writersnetwork @mirakee @readwriteunite #elixirc

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    Oh, I wish, I could step back,
    Alas, I am hurrying on a hamster wheel.
    And sometimes I miss something within,
    so I play my turmoil n' triumphs, on the reel.

    Churning infinitely, the elixir for my blighted self,
    I try to grip all voids- the hoaxed and the true.
    And I am missing something again
    And I know, this time, it's not me, but you.


  • simran2315 66w

    /To Smudged Hands & Ink/

    As my orbs scan your syllables,
    my mind halts its chores midway
    to speculate your verbiage.
    I feel your fingertips
    that once ran on this leaf,
    caressing my eyelids
    through time and space.
    We recite the same tongue
    yours but is, a smouldering fire.
    It chars, sometimes,
    and at other times, it illumes.

    Some verses of yours stir
    the storm at the back of my head.
    My skull oscillates
    like a pendulum,
    up and down,
    resonating with your iambic pentameters.
    Sometimes I fall
    for the configuration of atoms
    in your poem,
    and caress your words
    to find the open end of the tape
    to unmask what lies beneath.
    With a hand lens, I scour
    the intimate dots of l-o-v-e
    and I stand on my heels,
    peeking for how
    you simmer such delicacies.

    And maybe the mind does this gimmick,
    to spare the heart
    from getting anguished by your ink.
    To prevent it from falling
    into the chasms of the nostalgia
    of the unknown.

    And sometimes my heart yanks free
    the grasp of my brain
    and comes sprinting
    towards your phrases,
    stilling at the vista
    of the grandeur of your letters.

    It's like love at the first sight,
    and the pupils dilate
    abducting every cursive of your similes,
    gasping in your oxymorons,
    the spurt of that adrenaline inside
    appraising those alliterations,
    making me gape

    It bleeds and laments
    over the beauty and melancholy
    of the smidgens of your pen.
    and so the news dispels
    to the doors of my deeper insides.

    My soul glues its ears to the walls
    to catch the rhapsody
    of your syllable or two.
    It's a brisk highjack of my remains,
    and my soul holds there
    until the ambrosia from your ink
    drips upon it,
    soaking it all,
    easing the perpetual handcuffs.

    Your intriguing words
    rain daggers over my drenched self
    gashing it into fractions
    each sliver free-falling
    into voids of tangibility,
    finally brandishing
    to the thorns of your painted roses.

    I love it how you don't have an iota
    of me, making out with your words...
    Of how my neurons blink
    in the fervour
    to recapitulate the hues of the sky
    from your eyes.
    Of how you bring my heart
    in the core of the battlefield,
    to your words
    to you.

    That's what your poetry does to me...
    Forget the butterflies,
    your words make the niches of my gut
    turn auburn into frost
    in a blink of an eye.

    Aren't your words
    but formless, disembodied souls
    befriending mine?
    Sometimes taking my hand,
    sometimes kneeling beside,
    sometimes sucking the air from me,
    sometimes blowing in life.


    'If a poem hasn't ripped apart your soul, you haven't experienced poetry.'
    -Edgar Allan Poe��

    A note of gratitude to all the known and unknown words that have touched my soul so far.❤️
    You changed my winds of thought in ways I could never imagine.����❤️

    #melancholyc @writersbay @writersnetwork @mirakee #writersnetwork @readwriteunite

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  • simran2315 66w


    My garden of spring
    Turns to auburn and then frost
    laments, grass as dew.