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  • theultimateinsane 8w

    @my_cup_of_poetry @dusky_dawn and @kairos_ just wrote to keep your request.
    @_still_in_mess I'm still writing just because you never skip my rants (special tag♡)

    @writersnetwork thanks for the like
    @mirakee ~ a visit may be?

    #wod #gratitude

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    ~A letter to the rusted strings of my Tanpura ~

    To the strings,
    It's been years your rusted strings help me meeting my old escapes. How finely your strings still get plucked and the vibration creates a classical ambience shrouded in strands of yellow, orange and pink hues, not arranged neatly in a rope.
    Those white lilies she potted in the balcony, sang me summer ballads, couldn't make my eyes soaked in sleep anyhow. But you oozed sleepless nights out from eyes, your rusted strings played classical renditions and peppy contemporary ghazals to make me fall asleep.
    I remember the day we met, like it was yesterday, the weather was playing tragic and the thunder banged the glass doors. Everyone was telling "your mom is no more".What I thought was a rumour, it actually wasn't . I pushed the blurry faces behind and dug deep into her large wooden box. My fingers rummaged around. I felt my fingers running on a smooth surface and no sooner did my tiny hand touched your rusted ivory strings, I pulled 'em out and tucked my fingers into the palm, squeezing it gently, it was all red. But the girl who used to cry over broken dolls, smiled that day and her nerves laced up the boots to live the world on hearing the soothing music
    You taught me, why court death when there are spices yet left to treat the buds. Throughout these years I survived her loss, just because of your sweet melody that lasted amid the dregs of her last touch.

    to the strings and the smiles ~
    I plucked , you grinned
    not blossoms but strings
    I cried , you resonated
    a convivial melody
    I promised, you smirked
    love sonnets but not ghazals
    I construed, you frowned.
    the girl who once longed for the harmony


  • theultimateinsane 8w

    My jeans slit
    cut deep
    can see through it
    how the freckles, he caress and says
    "beautiful are these yellowish musings."
    Crumpled primroses, in between the pages,
    mocks at my scars but,
    he calls it 'A true fallacy'
    eulogies to my sweet lies
    juxtaposed the unwanted truths
    behind the bars
    "You are just three beautiful tragedies lesser than me
    but not small " ( said he)
    his words did heal, and the world
    waited for time.
    The blueberry stain yet not gone
    even summer eve never promises tomorrow(s)
    a forever peachy morn
    Time waited for memories to become and
    memories waited for the moments to sum (up)
    His coming is a renaissance in my heart,
    I'll write more poetries perhaps,
    when he'll be gone
    if he too leaves,I trust
    tomorrow will again come.

    @odysseus_2 sir written, @sereiin thanks for those prompts, @abhishekkamble encouraging always
    @_still_in_mess jani will you?

    #wod #pod #mirakee #writersnetwork
    @mirakee @writersnetwork

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  • theultimateinsane 14w

    Another day and I wake up to the pitter - patter sound of rain. The bed bugs are still resting, for the folds, I made last night on my bedsheet are still prominent .
    Behind the curtains, I fear the sun is playing hide and seek, just to be a perfectionist in trapping my imperfections. And no where but here today the cuckoo is mocking at me seeing the pastels of grey clouds, knowing not where has it come from.

    *Removing the curtains a bit*
    The calm wind slowly caressing my cheekbones, my fingers lingering on the glass border to feel the raindrops, add up to my beautiful scars.
    From somewhere the smell of "meetha paan" ( sweet bettle leaf) is coming, faraway the leaves of the tall coconut trees have got wilted, drop by drop they are counting how many rainfalls have they survived. Kachcha aam( Raw mangoes) that had fallen in yesterday's storm, crowd today's streets. The bricks of the walls, broken yet a promising shelter to the mosses, weathered yet monsoon after monsoon it never fails praising how the water carries out the stains of summer.
    * Extending my hand through the window*
    The clock strikes 3pm , still it's raining. My pains now feel like getting louder than silence as I put my eyes on the wood-line, where the army ants are carefully carrying eggs to their nests, to my surprise, they never give up. And just now one drop fell on my wrist, it felt as if my senses are again back to me. The sparrows are flying back to their nests, I wonder, what for, if my certain consciences are meant to be homeless.
    The sky has put off it's curtains. I'm now sitting on my terrace, the toads are croaking, before my eyes could find them , they already camouflaged themselves in the sticky mud.
    *Conversation with the street lamp*
    It's been half an hour we are sharing gaze. The street lamp telling how much she feels lonely especially on these rainy days , how much she misses the hurried up city folks, seeking for shelter. Whom she expected to atleast pay a visit, back then that little girl who letted her umbrella fall to the wet street and be blown by the wind, the young couples who enjoyed their warm kisses on every monsoon.
    I relate how everyone left me while she says, she has no one to talk with ,as she stands like a lifeless pillar on this abandoned street. The rain continued and we kept on pitying our loneliness until the abandoned street mocked at the lamp and my shadow smiled back at me loudly.

    #wod #pod

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  • theultimateinsane 21w

    Those pink barbies still crave for blues( Society mocked
    at those boys who loved pink)

    (In this piece, Blue is referred to as a boy , and the
    poems in between the para are written by me)

    ���������� �������������� ���������� �������� ���������� ���� ���������� ��������������������
    �������������� ���� �������������� ���������� �������� ������?
    ���� ���������������� ������ ������������ ���������������� ������������
    ���� ������ ������������ ���������������� ������ ������������������ ������������������,
    �������� ������ ������������������
    ������ �������� ������ �������������� �������������� �������������� ��������

    My every date went awesome without that colour.I
    believed that the sky has been cursed bereft of any pink
    shades,crying over her own fate, what would you think is
    just a flood.
    I've been nurtured saying: "�������� ���� ������ ���������� ������ ������ ������������ ������ ������ ��������"
    But both pink and hot wheels are just two nouns right?
    despite of any caste, creed and Sexual discrimination!

    Blue loved wearing pink hair pins and the polaroid on the walls of his room reflected perfect oxymorons. The
    neighbouring barbie dolls peeped through the glass
    windows into his room got jealous seeing Blue playing
    with those pink dolls ,they also wanted Blue to play with
    them .
    Those wild spider mums wait eagerly to get
    circumscribed round his head but the roses wilt seeing Blue in fear of mocking society .Even the scattered petals of asters in the Graffiti pots once promised Blue to answer to his every questions now if Blue asks them "why others laugh at me when I put lipstick ?" They soon turned into a post-apocalyptic dystopia .
    In the day break elysian consciences kiss him leaving
    back a puddle of ataraxia on his cheeks.
    And the flag of our socially Darwinistic world soares high in his midnight querencia when he secretly paints his lips in Fuschia.
    Society mocked at Blue,when he bravely said ,he is in
    love with another Blue.
    Society made him weaker than ever, and now when his
    heart asks him about his feelings Blue says ~

    ���� ������ ���������������� �� �������������� - //������ �������� ���� ���������������� �������� �������� �������� ������ ������
    ���������� �������� �������� ������ �� ���������������� ������������ ���� ������ �������� ��������������
    ���������������� ������ ������ ������ �������� ������ ������ ������.. //"(~theultimateinsane)
    #mirakee #women'sday #writersnetwork #pod @myrrhc( your prayers worked)@_still_in_mess special tag , @galvanizedthoughts @love_whispererr(you two made my comeback special)

    #mirakee #facebook #writersnetwork #writersofinstagram

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  • theultimateinsane 33w

    I miss you too @my_cup_of_poetry @myrrhc(♡♡♡ Meg loves Mir) @_creatingworldsthatdonotexist @thousand_splendid_thoughts @chai_biskut ( thanks for remembering me ;)

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    To them who were concerned
    I'm fine sweet souls :) . Trying to be here soon

  • theultimateinsane 36w

    Here, the former Cookie, is a girl ( servant) and the later one is a food.

    P. S : Who loves Red velvet Ice-cream like me? Eat this up ;)

    #writersnetwork #pod #mirakee

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    Cookie could cook cookie

    The blue bottles, and pomegranate fills,
    Ah! What a divine match of Summer.
    The oysters besides the beaches, well roasted
    and mother brushed their coats neat,
    A lick on and within, their coat,
    Wow, a flesh piece slipped within!

    Winter has fallen,
    her rich toffee cheeks brewed with some furrows,
    Jars filled with nutmegs only,
    Not a single praline cheese cakes in this winter
    Oh mum, at least pack me a jar full of Gingerbread men

    You, threw her out in one wintry night,
    just for stealing my new toy?
    Thousand a pennies, jingled in Dad's wallet
    And did you steal them,
    to show how decreasing order plays in practical ?

    Servant she wasn't, servant she wasn't,
    perhaps my favourite cook
    Ohhh! I miss her and her cookies these days
    I remember ,
    Cookie could cook cookie!


  • theultimateinsane 36w

    This is for you Mir (@myrrhc) . I know I can't comprehend what you are going through, but it's bothering me too somehow........ Get back soon.... I'll be waiting to have cupcakes and cookies with you.
    Meg loves you ♡

    #care #love #whatsbotheringyou #mirakee #mondaymantras #pod

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    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    Oh those green petals thee gifted
    Those gents wisely crumpled?
    Or hasn't thee hath lost those seashells,
    Paragon in Unicorn heads
    I gifted?

    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    Those army ants did hunt o'er
    thy minion sugar marchpane
    Or does yond shopeth in the corner
    refuseth giving thee cards,
    on which thee wished to painteth .

    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    Seeth the bench in the garden doth
    feels so exsufflicate without thee
    The wild flowers art missing thy poems
    Crying " Mistress, Mistress maketh us thy words
    before we leaveth"

    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    Tomorrow is a sleeping beauty,
    riseth up and liveth the present day
    What if't be true the candles stand ho
    burning from tomorrow?
    Alloweth's has't a candle light meal the present day .

    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    What's bothering thee mistress ?
    Hasn't thee forgotten counting those insects
    Did stick into spider's web?
    Before our cupcakes becometh a valorous meal
    for the houseflies
    kicketh the world, nay less than
    a cutteth throat curr
    And loveth stand ho bothering on mine own sake!

  • theultimateinsane 37w

    Her rusted hair pins like a cappella of baritone hues in the wooden hollow along with other small fallen buttons, a piece of thread, still shines the best out of all .

    Those woollen crocheted sweaters won't fit in anymore, still she prefers narrating me a fable under the blanket in winter nights. I have never asked her anyday why she passionately paints her nails in ebony and secretly tries my Fuschia shade on her lips.

    She smiles over her folds and caresses them , for she is happy to make separate colonies on her wrinkled skin for "him" may be as grandpa conquered the whole territory of her heart. I don't laugh at her strange malapropism or else I would miss the chance then to draw points how to be better than perfect and in hiding her bruises probably "him" she was a complete Paragon .

    She sits with paper balls to save the moths from the lizards on the wall and if it happens to be her favourite pin instead by a mere fault her gaze sets into a long term oblivion . Every time I sleep beside her she never forgets to leave a puddle of saliva on my dimpled cheeks, and then I wonder whom she loves the most.

    On every weekend until the ice cream melts in porcelain bowls and until the choco chips get lolled on the brim of hot tea cups she will try different hairstyles out of her grey strands. Her teeth aren't red in tobacco although I find her nurturing poppies than those roses in the pots, she is well choreographed in wrapping betel nuts in two- three leaves and even if her pains slips off her mouth , it will never be "his" name that may create a dull thud.

    And unconsciously, she runs, in between the knitted fabrics those pointed needles, to the roads where she refrained a sunflower from blooming at the cynosure, where her lost dalliance may keeps on patting her soft toes.
    Drops then get closely arranged in her folds, I dare not wipe those out as she might be enjoying her fika in an abditory.

    Old memories creep through the walls and all over my legs back then she used to make me forget the red marks of those ants and and wiped my tears over broken dolls . I also get started like her, not to wipe but
    //���� �������� ���� �������� ������������:
    ���� ���������� — ������ ���������� — ������ ��������������-������ —
    ���� ���������������� — ������ ���������� —
    ������ ������ ������ ������ ���� �������������� ������ —
    ������ �������������� �������� �������� ����������.//(~��������������)

    Some colourful rubber bands and a ring she tries on fitting those round her pinky finger one after another and if I ever throw a "WH" shuttlecock she will pass it into a tacenda as if she tries to rate her as a biggest flâneur .

    I often notice upon the wall clock in her room, it shows a perfect timing only two times a day and the rest of the day the hands rest over the same place.Wonder how? The clock hands has been stuck at 7:30 , only at 7:30 in the morn and at 7:30 in the eve an office going chap will not be misguided anyhow.

    I won't compel her to say who was "he" but the dandelions and the poppies would blame me someday when only the flowers will smell like her on this earth.


    Special tag @_still_in_mess ( jaani ��) & @my_cup_of_poetry ( I want you to read this)

    @abhishekkamble (encouraging me always ^_^ )

    #mirakee #pod #gramdmawearepoets

    @writersnetwork thanks for the like ��

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  • theultimateinsane 38w

    Thanks for the like again and not for the repost @writersnetwork

    @writersnetwork @mirakee #pod #creativearena #writingcontest
    This is inspired by @my_cup_of_poetry one poem ( Thanks for inspiring)

    @_still_in_mess Jaani �� @abhishekkamble @dusky_dawn

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    is a 40 years old grimmest - jawed umbrella
    carrier who has forgotten more than a dozen of umbrellas in the local train or in the 90's filter it was his father who had forgotten him along the roadside in a perambulator to enjoy vodka shots.
    ( ~ in reference to FORGETTING by Lynd )

    is a 21 years old insane frowning in jealousy, absolutely born out of rage and heartbreaks. Always waiting with whetted sword at 2 a.m. for taking revenge at abandoned streets.

    is a 9 months old womb of a mother who is actually waiting to enjoy the first kick or the merry-go-round who has been cursed by a mother for years for her lost child.

    is that i̶n̶t̶r̶o̶v̶e̶r̶t̶ 4 years old girl who hides under the dupatta of her mother to escape her relatives and beyond the horizon she is the latent sun immersing slowly leaving the evening serenity behind.

    is a mom's handmade broccoli dish which was supposed to be a chicken frankie according to her only son at the table and it always wishes for better luck next time

    is a livid and splenetic teeth gritted in a fiesty snare, where even a metallic spoon finds it's way too hard to pass through. Patience does injustice then by hissing out rough words making it an unholy place to take God's name.

    is an airtight balloon willing to burst . But every time it takes an attempt, it fails thinking the elasticity may mock at.

    is a 55 years old single father who wants his son to give him another chance and still struggling to be a better father from tomorrow.


  • theultimateinsane 38w

    Thanks @the_poetic_soul for helping me to write this ��

    @writersnetwork Read this :) once ( You can read hindi Ik)

    @dusky_dawn & @_still_in_mess �� hindi try kiya ( although bakwas likh di :) )

    Just wrote it for fame �� ( no feelings involved)
    Now haters gonna hate and Idc

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    Tumhari humari nahin bhi hui mulakaat to kya Man ke lifafein mein kuch na boli hui baaton ko reh jane do na
    Nahin bhi aayi aankhon mein neend toh kya
    aaj humare meethi yaadon se aankhon ko
    bhar jane do na

    Tumhara humara ek sath chalna nahin hua to kya Usi raste mein humare chhupe hue
    khwahishon ko ane jaane do na
    Nahin bhi mila mere komal hathon ki sparsh
    to kya
    Mere sare sapne tumhare charon aur
    tumko lekar hai bane

    Tumhara humara ek sath baarish mein bheegna nahin hua to kya
    usi baarish ke paani mein
    Humare dil ki naao ko beh jane do na
    Baarish ke rim-jhim shabd
    aaj nahin bhi dete sukoon to kya
    Mere Meethi awaaz se aaj
    Tumhare rooh ko bhar jaane do na

    Tumhara humara milan nahin hua to kya
    Humare beech ye dosti ke bandhan ko
    reh jaane do na
    Jamte rha ye abhiman k wadiyaan
    badh rha hai toh badh jane do
    aise hi humare beech ye duriyan banaye rakho