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  • tamanna3 7w

    sɪᴍᴘʟᴇ

    (inside)

    the verdent curtains
    in my room
    admit all the foreign light,
    the opale print on it bloom
    like white roses
    glancing at me
    with straight faces.
    perhaps my window panes
    are more transparent
    than the person inside.


    (warmth)

    the mustard walls create
    an illusion of warmth
    but the skin I own
    has grown older
    with time,
    it knows how long
    winter resides inside.


    (time)

    the clock on the wall
    was the loudest
    of us all,
    its hands sped faster
    than the cars outside.
    now it tells its story
    in sighs every night,
    like a learner of silence
    who lets its family own
    their voices better
    than before it arrived.

    ©tamanna3

  • tamanna3 8w

    ʜᴜᴍᴀɴ


    every day of being
    human is a war.
    every night I buckle up
    and set myself en route
    to the endless road-
    wordless,
    'cuz everyone's chasing
    the same goal,
    the same mystery,
    the same journey.

    at one point midway,
    we're all scarecrows
    hiding behind
    chalked smiles.
    angels hover over
    our lifespan,
    stretched like north
    and south poles,
    we can't see either
    but they exist,
    frozen in their own places.

    I see people,
    building walls
    in and around
    themselves,
    I try drawing boundaries
    to keep them away,
    often forgetting
    I'm as much
    a human as them.

    ©tamanna3

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  • tamanna3 8w

    134340 ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴋʏ

    Electric veins sing!
    a song of light 'nd not words;
    The sea hums your name in sync.

    A stoic shore awaits
    passage of this storm in peace;
    The sky riots loud in thunder!

    Sombre azure writes!
    an ode to photophile times;
    Earth welcomes night as old pal.

    You bask in your light
    never minding opinions;
    A halcyon Pluto, you smile!

    ©tamanna3

  • tamanna3 8w

    ᴅᴀᴡɴ ᴏғ sᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ


    before it dawned on my visual field
    you were gone
    like a ghost in the wind
    now the air is stale
    and speaks a foreign dialect.
    my mind picks up
    the last few signposts of summer,
    waiting like angels of transition-
    one eye verdant,
    another blood red.
    maybe this evening is possessed
    or maybe I'm seeing things
    or maybe, just maybe
    the world is racing too fast.
    two hours past
    the end of this summer,
    my arms are frozen from
    your transparent embrace.
    two swollen orbs
    traverse the skyline,
    searching for a rebirth of dawn,
    when electric poles cast
    longitudinal shadows
    on the thermodynamic sand,
    but farewells last longer
    than wordless prayers.
    nightmares tiptoe around
    the borders of my town
    and monsters creep downstairs
    from their highland houses-
    battles resume in the wind,
    muffled voices hint
    at silent prayers,
    a sigh a door,
    a plagiarised speech on screen,
    two bottles of champagne-
    one underneath a bed,
    another in bits claiming a quietus.
    thousand soldiers on road,
    and three battles curtailed at home.
    in a world where winter lasts forever,
    orphans of life still peep
    through windows,
    a prayer in their gazes
    knocks on summer's door.

    a sunset a day,
    two battles a night.
    someday there'll be a dawn
    without martyrs of
    a quotidian summer dissolving
    with hopes on the shore.


    ©tamanna3

    #myth

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  • tamanna3 9w

    #color . Too early and too late.

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    ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ

    with all the fuss about rainbows
    black rests on an armchair,
    its hands touching the sky
    and eyes on a crowded pavilion.
    it smirks at astronomy books,
    silently mocking the timeless wars
    for its multifaceted kingdom.

    (there's a leather shoe in my room,
    my father wears it everyday
    to his favorite place outside our home,
    he loves its black
    coz his father loved the same;
    there's a hierarchy of darkness in my family
    but we live more happily
    than frontline faces in white.)

    black is more a noun
    than a descriptive tag for
    bottomless solenoids in the sky;
    it stands with a complete profile
    unlike the concrete ground
    under my feet,
    that feeds on transparency
    every morning I rise.

    _____________________________________

    black is, for it reflects all
    if not for black, what would you love colors for?

    ©tamanna3

  • tamanna3 9w

    ғᴀɪᴛʜ

    today the church looks empty,
    there's an air of funeral
    at the priest's place,
    the only person he loved more than god
    fled his home with an atheist
    the holy scriptures now lay on the floor,
    their heads down
    with guilt and introspection.
    two devotees stood by the church door,
    their faces heavy of
    betrayal and indecision.

    a heritage of twenty years
    crumbled down in a second's span,
    all in the name of religion
    and frozen virtues.
    a divine sky sighed in contempt,
    all those bars of faith and devotion
    averted building a house
    intended to be a home;
    a priest and a father
    failed today in unison;

    will you visit that church again?

    ©tamanna3

  • tamanna3 9w

    E n s o

    A series of chemical reactions
    occurring in the blink of an eye,
    A motherly expanse eyeing its own
    creation exhaling in grey to its face,
    An orphan of nebula homing at free
    all generations of refining pilgrimage,
    A vague anatomy of the graceful hand
    sighing at guilty minds seeking empathy.

    Everyone seeks wholeness from an
    illusive entity who only feigns perfection.

    ©tamanna3

    #enso

    You can miss everything but the sky.

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  • tamanna3 9w

    #nostalgic

    It's tough to find a picture that'd resonate with this feeling, so are people who would.
    Hmm, thanks WN ��

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    ɪᴅᴇɴᴛɪᴛʏ

    I'm a combination of
    all the things I hate
    and a disarray of those
    I want to love.
    I take pride in my flaws
    until they suffocate me,
    coz I'm only a human who
    breathes through the mouth
    when my nostrils are clogged
    with an aftermath of guilt.
    I don't regret past mistakes
    rather those I didn't commit,
    coz tall boardings show
    only black and gold,
    not the in-betweens.
    So on days I tame
    a hurricane within,
    I look calm as a sheep
    wearing a coat of white
    since families don't own
    a healthy black sheep,
    (and I belong to a sweet one)

    There are days I'm nostalgic
    and days too mundane
    to not get used to be fine about.
    I own an old school
    of lucid thoughts,
    that's grown too immune to
    new words of ornate exhibition.
    I still carry the ghosts of my past
    like horses at the back of my mind,
    but they run wild only
    as long as they're mine.


    Bullseye at each pole of my life
    stand with polychrome identities,
    but the world sees them
    only in colors of extremity.

    ~ Perhaps they need glasses
    (to discover their own home)
    more than me.

    © tamanna3

  • tamanna3 10w

    #kept too personal.
    Another two years from then and there's not a lot I want to add.

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    I've kept inside me

    An easy childhood I grew out of before time
    where
    I dug ten marbles from their untimely graves,


    An illusion of a memory of listening to grandmother
    where
    I instead read myself a book called "90's fables",


    A notebook with fifteen floral covers
    where
    I wrote rebel songs I sang only to myself,


    Two hometowns of belongingness
    where
    I built and left twin monuments of candour,


    Twenty years of wilful silence
    where
    I gulped down screams to where they never survived,


    A veil of fireproof saccharinity
    where
    I tame a burgeoning voice of clarity to no avail,


    An infinity of parallel universes
    where
    I believe I could've been myself better,


    Twenty skies with shooting stars
    where
    I wish for a world I didn't have to keep them inside.

    ©tamanna3

  • tamanna3 10w

    #growth
    For a mind working after long.

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    Identical v/s identity

    We talk to the sky coz people are bad listeners,
    Who hear for mere sake of an inbuilt mechanism.
    We talk louder than our grasp on human nature,
    For none would be missed by karmic cataclysm.


    Man as said, is born a rightful social animal,
    A product of million possibilities in this creation.
    The same way this world has made rules of control,
    Its people have devised methods for dereliction.


    Documentaries say you're only a speck of dust,
    In this universe that's ever expanding yet ending.
    Every today you live is another story written in stars,
    Except you don't see it shine like those of others'.


    We've lived long enough to call our lives shorter,
    While cursing every other moment as if it weren't ours.
    We, same-land-walkers pack ourselves into timezones,
    Even as we age with the same sun over the horizon.


    People spend half their youths learning equations,
    Never getting better at solving them outside textbooks.
    A twist on screen woos human eyes and hearts in sync,
    The same in person, calls for face-the-fact maneuvers.

    ©tamanna3