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  • sumiinked 1w

    and you know that equation was particularly for you;

    it draped the three and half
    and midst that mirzai
    you wore summer and as
    long as you were there it
    had Van Gogh's chronic ,
    and the skies satires wrote
    calligraphy till the name
    i heard reminiscences
    and the skies vignettes
    from the core we wore
    and pythagorean until it
    awaken schmaltzy to
    the caeles and its celsius.

    i had been that gulmohar
    somewhere near that
    classroom of seventh
    when it signatured a while
    to textile the same celluloid
    and it recited those days,
    and sconces from the city
    where we were together,
    behind ashoka it had
    souvenirs to snuggle up,
    they all augured , to say
    fathom of that someone.

    perhaps, parallels won't
    meet howbeit it left and
    i wanna re-live assemblies
    when a tinge from that
    turmeric forbid benches
    to make a mark, sidewalk.
    i am fourteen and the
    theme showcase out of
    breakthrough it break and
    it retches off Gulzar's
    waltz from uncertainties
    that stutter seoni, i know
    but i want you to walk with
    me in my poetry.

    ©suman, from those students of spring.

  • sumiinked 1w

    || I am revolution of 18 ||

    I was told,
    to sip shasm and the name
    of reputation his shoulder
    carried. I'm wife of a man,
    schmaltzy before Tagore's
    death, rebel of 1857 to the
    riverside half fortnight.

    I was told,
    to originate just after the
    confluence of sindh river
    when my mirage were ;
    her valour to remember
    the Gwalior as mutiny in
    primarily with Jhansi.

    I was told,
    to symbolise its ochre an
    autobiography of Bharat
    I'm Queen of Jhansi and
    the emperor of liberation
    till the sword of Shivaji
    became resistance.

    I was told,
    to write the history and
    the emancipated cobalt
    which wore a word and
    sacrifical. I'm calligraphy
    to this day, autopsy a
    mizpah under pardah.

    I was told,
    to ceremony the courage,
    battle of mirage under a
    feet where it invaded the
    doctrine of Lapse. I am
    consumption of june
    when it inherited tamarind.

    I was told,
    to blue-blood as soon as
    it awaken the bhagwa of
    emergence when east
    rose bravery from a tinge
    to take the conception,
    which Marathas made.

    I was told,
    to deal Dalhousie whose
    invasion broke desh. I'm
    the violation for those
    villagers perhaps I was
    with evacuate. As they
    said, freedom a fear.

    I was told,
    to overthrow the outskirt
    and wore a fear to death
    I died beneath the tree
    which cremated betray.
    I'm summer to those,
    who burn empire.

    I was told,
    to accept and be an
    audience or else I'd be
    more than enough. I'm
    woman of promises &
    son to this motherland,
    while waving flag.

    I was told,
    to emblazone fathom
    some bardiche augured
    on autumn, I was a fall
    for Hindustan's history
    to rise revolution in
    eighteenth misery.

    I was told,
    to be a weapon when
    a writer in me wither ;
    Perhaps, I'm in those
    people this generation
    has forgotten.Maybe a
    punctuation of poetry.

    I was told,
    to ritualise to secure a
    way from Kashi to Jhansi,
    until it found Kotah-ki-Serai.
    speaking high & raising
    truth. I'm victim of
    violation a mere truth.

    ©sumiinked, from the POV of Rani Lakshmi Bai

    *Kotah-ki-Serai: a place near Gwalior, where Lakshmi Bai died.


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  • sumiinked 1w

    • it restrained the name you heard •
    - by changing tenses.

    I am fourteen,
    and the sunflowers that retches now write
    the forelsket when the summer-sigh takes
    grammatical obliteration behind the words
    I write.

    I am fourteen,
    and I go school whilst turmeric forbid the
    injuries and the knees start showing these
    names and those outskirts accordion has,
    until I write.

    I am fourteen,
    and the skies above text begins his theatre
    who tell the tales of Gulliver and Van Gogh
    till the word-paint cadaver a canvas on the
    frame I write.

    I am fourteen,
    & Ma they exclaim when it stutter farspeak
    while it takes sidewalks and gobbledygook
    episode till I cut my wrist to say summary,
    which you write.

    I am fourteen,
    and last of september dial Gulzar's waltz,
    and my first love fades before birth and the
    snuggles behind walls says scriptureint to
    read before it write.

    I am fourteen,
    and the theme commuovere left one on a
    moment beforehand the temporary reason
    guilt the hurt I wear while fireflies disavow
    tomorrow to not write.

    I am fourteen,
    & the framework which hang on the scarf
    align with the schmaltzy of fuchsia attires,
    with book which Jane Austen record now
    re-release the constellations to write.

    I am fourteen,
    and after watching today turn out into a
    Tagore's masquerade which I wannabe to
    attach some and somedays to mull over,
    catastrophic rituals whichever they write.

    ©sumiinked, a writer without wither.

    @writersnetwork really!

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  • sumiinked 1w

    • I a m f o u r t e e n & f i n e •

    it awaken the gossamers of something last decades' and the left ones beneath banyan cultured pyheb.

    || and it often absquatulate heritage ||

    today i turned to koe no katachi, yes the same movie we watched and it stretches the marks of my scrapbook i made, when i was seven. palash upright behind the verandah before his mirzai manteau my half-melt moon to maa's forehead red and i know she knows i wore her lipstick on core of lugra while the tangerine on my palms dried when the infancy stitched the same description of dark as haunting. and it says those days. i canoodled amongst the womb of bravery whenever grandma's story dictated dark and you know it no more felt brittle, it felt familiar yet not homely. i saw coquina after you and you know it still stutter sometimes when i burglared to your kitchenette howbeit it shared, today;

    || the summer on my hands dried on grandma's death||

    /substitute to rice, sometimes the vermicelli to sweet corn or koda kutki to millet. add 1/4 cup and soak it into skies' safa /and during the skillet to, on the flame, floor it with full-fat milk/ low the tint on brink of love / include sapphire of sareureuk saffron/ then drain the rice, add it to boiling milk/ and let it be the beginning, and yeah no need to cover the entire /add raw saccharine aka sugar when the rice is half-cooked /after an attire it is entirely tired to rest inside your stomach/ tasted cardamon on cup. sliced almonds. chopped cashews. cut pistachios accompanied with dry grape on top & ta-da the kheer potpourri those debris of your spittle / haha. dear xxx, do you remember you taught me this whilst the parijat fallen out of risette-recipe of your name?

    || mirinae hallucinated hallyu while way back home ||

    i went behind ashoka tree to trade analyst when flowers bloom at sapphire and summer steadily addressed his name with mine and it felt love and for a moment it was just us. dear xxx, i love skies, sakura & summer cause they never forbid f o r e v e r. fireworks finishes off and you know it felt two nights before the death occurred to my fireflies which i wore on cadaver canvas. doctor said, more illusions and it illustrated - i don't have enough time - verified virtuoso on brink of bardic my breast pressed down on pain and it was heavy. "her pulse rate reached to one thirty-five, how less left ?" they said. i saw dad doing his best but i befriended with death.

    || your silence portrait Van Gogh's vignette ||

    i was twelve when i felt it for first, and it was fucking painful you know. i hid it and hoped. i met a stranger while discovery of metaphors deceived, it bloomed in fossils and cobble-sized an exclamation to existence. i know i no longer can write, till the fingertips stop managing maestral each midway to stay. and the tenses upon their tongues started changing and it grammatically wrong on grandma's souvenirs but it farspeak the pokemon cards i kept since september sidewalks. do you often listen, "likhe jo khat tujhe" to "lag jaa gale" until standstead umbrage from sky and recite the emblazoned leaf, i once had interest on.

    || it has been seven-thirty augurs, i am about to fade ||

    on august, i dialled gaullifered coquelicot out accordion and i saw everyone saying sayonara. i don't had any idea to awedde the name, i recited. he left and it awaited from seven to fourteen. it has been ensuring uncertainties that felt a less today. seems like time is flying fast or maybe its just me who realised it bit later but it should be fourteen and fine.

    #feelstora (12)

    *pyheb: girls' attire which used to wear on feet

    *koe no katachi: an anime movie where a grade school student with impaired hearing is bullied mercilessly.

    *palash: butea tree, mirzai: manly attire of MP, lugra: way of wearing saree; koitur custom, safa: turban

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  • sumiinked 1w

    || eighteen-summer calligraphied chronic ||

    her eyes look like unheard story when the fibster on desk hid caeles clays to camouflage the stretch marks to patch the pitfalls of past and somedays to retch instrumental bougainvillea that boundaries the infancy to maturation on the other days to rate machination.

    the rain is falling and with each wither it worded into matinee. last night, it fell off the floor and versify the battle-scars as masquerade scabo and the alliteration re-played the radio station, it discovered metaphors, composed some more. rain sang same sarang to count dead fireflies before dawn.

    two lovers found a fairytale, on brink of fictional forever. he forbid her name while reading red-thread. howbeit, the either way to take down skylines she whispered worded waldeinsamkeit to tangerine. the lusty love on the back of larynx said, "true love knows no league".

    your smile is a lie, behind the mosaics of canopied fress that often forget to cherish the belamour cause the catastrophic cwtch the brasserie which sphere the horizon of his heart. the sitzifleisch desiccated frondescence before fall, it withered before words.

    when flowers bloom at sapphire and stretches skies an hour before sareureuk, a poet pictorize perpetrate pashmina within september sidewalks. She, an eighteen apostolus calligraphy which he used to canoodled somewhere near framework which she made on forelsket.

    ©sumiinked, 88 hallucinated mirinae with hallyu.


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  • sumiinked 1w

    • fathom its scabo-sigh •

    i saw masquerade upright
    the marrow, which spleen
    the satire until salwa judum
    the Shakespeare(d) aperte
    the discombobulated wine
    "I am fine" - merlot tangerine
    on the attire of eighteenth,
    wear autopsy, it steadily
    puffed out amaranth and
    the emancipated beneath
    the unfamiliar words, it has.
    But believe me, it forpe a
    sour evacuated fortnight of
    Healthcliff & Catherine.

    i saw realism fibbing, perfidy
    f o r e v e r & the forbidded
    goodbye on Van Gogh's vainer.
    - It never be Romeo & Juliet -
    The starry night stuttered,
    & the daydreams of spring
    wither before autumn.a hand
    on absquatulation saying
    hurt and his fornication to
    rein obliterated f a u l t s. it
    augured up flotsam & tore
    the dissection of his death.
    he left, and forelsket myth.

    i saw the hunted fireflies
    on my collar bone wearing
    all kinds of outskirts and
    the unknown today, it said
    the dysthymia till maestral
    elflock intumescented.
    coquilot accordion and his
    schmaltzy rejigged cruses.
    somedays I'm someone else
    to chew the curse, death said.

    _cheveret red-string and lusty larynx.

    *salwa judum: purification hunt(in my local, koitur)
    *Healthcliff & Catherine are characters from a book by Emily Bronte.

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  • sumiinked 3w


    Yo, EC��
    @/writersnetwork thank you for the read.

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    takara-tales to try when summer takes down skies,

    I count on you,
    the emancipated cobalt,
    you revolt when the
    lyricsm felt two steps
    behind gobbledygook to
    claim cardinal flower
    somewhere near the
    withered word.

    I count on you,
    your name within red thread
    till four-leaf clover send
    the abolished absence
    until I awaited cuddles
    to differentiate
    the parallels,
    our world has.

    I count on you,
    to promise me the left
    genre of unfair forever
    so someday I can
    restraint the retches
    of yesterday,
    of personification
    I try between verses.

    I count on you,
    the song you played
    while we were there.
    I still count, when
    somedays the skies
    shades collywobbles
    behind colour-waffles.

    ~sakura fall


  • sumiinked 3w

    #grandma ana nik pirem kiyatona!

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    tingling-saccharine as
    redamancy for her,

    I saw her pouring prepossessing, until sun sets down while saffron stretches skies a bit later to turn retches for her redamancy. I remember her saying all spillets until spices titled her with decennary' coquina which moreover kept since the birth of winter when grandma taught me her secret dish. I was standing still, rolling down my fingertips upon containers and somewhere near that countered clamour, still utensils were narrating grandma's recipe to my five-summer infancy when infatuation dissected eye-catching burned hand of her, "grandma, you should take care of yourself".

    her kitchen, starting with containers having mahogany print. I was sitting on the bank of banyan and she told me to take a look at affection. I said, restrainted till the end when she took me in galley and told the secret recipe I discussed when I was something five-falls. While growing among so many gulmohars I'd have seen grandma as uncountable cabinets and somedays as the sunrise to my downs/dawns when hope-like turmeric poured skies, with yellow clay that was willing to write soundtrack of skillets, crocks, cruses & containers. From there, her risette wrote recipes of her own ornamental while I was reading spices that remnants to kitchenette through turmeric, cumin, green and black cardamon and sometimes in those clove and cinnamon with an essence of coriander at top.

    grandma, if I would say I still love night-tales out of nightingale will you again counter kitchen with your words. I'd like to bring your recipe back because I still coddiwomple behind backyard. I still remember that september when you obliterated my summer, all allowance I send to sayonara since sarang said to take back dry grape you emblazoned on my kernel, even now I wear fireflies in eventide while singing the same cacophony left in your kitchen.


  • sumiinked 3w

    #start #anaphora
    @/writersnetwork ah, really! Gracias��

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    sareureuk coddiwompled when the last sidewalk takes "sayonara",

    I love the moment,
    when your eyes meet mine
    till the twilights stretch out
    more of my wintery-wattles
    when you prefer fleeting
    to erstwhile till the moment
    "tis unravels & I still glide
    behind your blue shirt.
    -you wore on our first date-

    I love proses, more than poetries
    which snuggled throughout
    whole snowfall when sarang
    tried to say, "will you be forever"
    and my breath faltered
    enough in faults, I awaited
    to awedde all stansted
    across the parallels
    -I still visit somewhere near verses-

    I love each moment more
    when you wake up with
    faith in eyes, my hands fibbed forever
    though I still wished you were
    the only one to hear it
    my last scream, and
    sakura desquamatued, I died.
    -by lying absquatulated bye-


  • sumiinked 3w

    Editor's Choice, huh! ��

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    someday hope the sky to shelter you
    elflock odes to words within your sorrows
    midway when sonnet sighs, until ink bleeds
    canopy the last opera you heard (in) poetry
    I wish to write moments of love
    so that each fall, I rise (in) verse
    I'd like to cherish (you), before another wither!