DIYA I love poems more than humans.

Grid View
List View
  • thunderbird__ 27w

    from a hidden alleyway,
    agony peers at a man
    like his divorced wife
    accusing him of adultery,
    which she forgot to define
    before she left their
    together constructed street
    spilling 'cheater' on every
    wall as if wanting the neighbours
    to encage their proprietorial wives
    before the flawless families
    reek of white lilies, not the
    one born out of wedlock but
    ones who sounds like the inadvertent
    dirge in ears of helpless
    children who lock themselves
    every night when they see patriarchy
    coming home as the tipsy sorceress
    and lying befuddled in arms of anarchy

    on the sidewalk,sits an aged lady
    holding arms of her wheelchair
    tight, chanting the name of god
    disguised as her once seen innocent child
    who she bought from the grave of
    her husband who left her silently
    after writing hundreds of poems on
    how love is all about second chances
    but god of death rejected his plea
    saying that the pitcher of his uncommitted
    sins has filled upto the brim and if he
    lets him breathe for another second than
    the earth will topple because of snowballing lechery

    years later, a girl blooms womanhood
    wanting to get her newly born forelsket published after which her
    father thrusts her into orphanage
    where she carries her poems as only
    pennies left to buy subsistence,
    there she meets a boy in her dream
    murmuring like Hitler
    guilty of letting rage of his father beating
    him turning into a brother bullying her sister unknowingly

    one disastrous night,
    girl walks back
    to the streets where once she called
    four walls a home, suddenly a star in the sky
    enters her ears as distressed voice of his grandfather-
    "I'm the root of your burgenoning dysfunctional family"

    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod #mirakee #writersnetwork

    Read More

    A burgeoning dysfunctional family


  • thunderbird__ 27w

    Like the leaves of forest
    where summer is frozen,
    there lay the sinner seeking
    remission of his sins
    plummeting from the black
    tongue that outstretched
    when for the first time he
    placed his heart in the boiling water.

    The idols in the temple
    develop cracks every moment
    he chops off a heart ruthlessly
    and inscribes 'I'll become sinless'
    on the winds headed towards
    the wavering sky of forever,
    travelling on a flying carpet
    weaved with fragile threads of nows.

    Tomorrow is a tired sunset, rises
    from the withered and strewn soil
    as the Europe written by Lord Byron
    fleshed with opaque love affairs
    in hope to see lazaurus syndrome
    bring colourful Europe back
    from the grave which breathed
    its last the moment it wore the
    blind spectacles of upcoming future.

    Gamblers find their way through
    the throng of yet to appear profits
    and losses, sit together
    placing their gluttonous fingers
    on every passing minute on the clock
    before its onomatopoeia rattles
    like the faded history of regrets.

    Tick tock.
    Tick tock.
    The clock rings a bell, and a man
    abandons his plans of uitwaaein,
    picks up a banner in his hands
    with a sentence written on it
    'Forever is culmination of nows'
    and strolls streets screaming-
    "Wake up before it's too late."

    Uitwaaein - To take a break to clear one's head

    @mirakee @writersnetwork #writersnetwork #pod

    Read More

    Before it's too late


  • thunderbird__ 27w

    Success consists of going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm.

    -Winston Churchill

    They teach you about the zenith of sky and make you gaze at the wings of birds. But they forget to teach you how to walk when the velocity of winds chops off your wings.
    We all have gone through failures and yet have made till this day. It is easy to shrink into desolation and shut doors but it takes immense valour to again jump into the war which once made you bleed.

    Write about the most devastating failure of your life and how did you sail through it. You can write a poem, a story, a conversation, anything. Also you can write about people from history and their success story.

    Use hashtag #icanandiwill

    The deadline is 15 October 10 PM

    But you can always write using this hashtag using the same premise.

    So pick up your pen and set yourself free from your grief. Life isn't a sprint but a marathon. We have to keep moving.

    Much love!


  • thunderbird__ 27w

    When hailstones fall
    on your head, do you
    even know how it feels?
    When the sky above
    showers endless winter
    on you like psychological
    thunderstorms where you
    keep rotating until your
    mind forgets to connect
    its wires to present and
    you feel like a flaneur
    inside your own body,
    Have you ever felt
    something similar?

    I was a girl with
    tender dreams in my palms
    and deluge of love inside
    my naive heart.
    You're too good to be real,
    were the words of a man
    who made my sculpture
    and washed it with blood
    everyday. With every passing
    year, he climbed up the ladder
    and pushed me deeper into
    the pithole where I found
    self love torn and withered.

    Depression found my home,
    and I backpacked around
    a circle. Everyone who
    visited me named it as
    the wheel of failure and
    placed sympathy on my
    shoulder like a boulder
    dismantling my valour
    and I chundered words
    under a note 'Dear Diary'
    filling empty drawers
    in corner of a room.

    Now my mirror calls me
    a woman, and every city
    I left calls me a stranger.
    Quietly, I gulp down my truth
    as a mystery laden with
    empathy protecting herself.
    How can you be so cold?
    A question hangs from
    every silent goodbye I
    leave behind. And I vanish
    into thin air with my aching heart
    which refuses to let the world
    know how every faded footprint
    still inhales colours inside it.


    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod #writersnetwork

    Read More

    Every city I left
    calls me a stranger


  • thunderbird__ 27w

    Through the streets of life
    I pedal, slowly,
    solicitous, seizing silence
    from every moment which
    imprisons bare truths that
    wait for me at every
    impending intersection.

    Optimism rings the bell
    of a house lying haunted from
    years, in hope of acceptance.
    Batalvi sits outside his home,
    and for the first time, the sound
    of his flute doesn't
    settle on my eyelids as
    water, separated.

    Dreams pinned to the
    open dangling strands of sky
    gaze at the earth,
    like a laconic parable being written
    on the lines of my palm.
    Garrulous thoughts dip
    their lips into the pyramid
    of self awareness books.

    Love flutters around my walls
    like a butterfly growing wings
    after her fields were set on fire
    for never to be replenished.
    My burnt fingers traverse
    ashes, and doodle a phoenix
    on my the top of my hand.

    Every time a bullet is fired,
    a war crops up and leaves
    behind silent pain.
    I succumb to the aftermath
    and surrender to edged needles
    but my poems snowball like
    wildflowers grow in all
    places, with head high
    and difficult to be tamed.

    Thank you so much @writersnetwork and @mirakee
    This is an honour :')��

    #mondaymantras @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod #writersnetwork

    Read More

    I pedal through
    the streets of life


  • thunderbird__ 33w

    Me and my core self talk
    at cross purposes,
    I launch a movement 'Quit My Past'
    under the historic August movement,
    but my conscience
    stands in opposition to it,
    following words of Savarkar-
    'You can't win by disobedience'

    I write about me being Iceland,
    securing the title of most peaceful country
    on Global Peace Index since its launch,
    trying to trust what a wise man once said that
    past is the nothing but the amalgamation
    of words you say to yourself in future,
    But when I read my own words,
    they resonate with Taiwan, deranged
    by military activities of my despotic emotions,
    reflecting unbending China

    My heart has become Catalonia, 
    it asks for secession from me, not able to stop itself
    from beating for a dead man,
    I declare it inadmissible repeating
    words of Spanish government, and
    suppress its voice by passing a Black Act
    replicating the act of callousness of Britishers
    towards Indians in history

    These days when I take a peek out the window,
    I see world undergoing electric cremation after being
    hit by a horrific disease,
    And when I look inside myself, I find spectre
    of a scabulous woman who has been already cremated

    @mirakee @writersnetwork #daadigotyourback #pod

    Read More

    Me and my core self
    talk at cross purposes


  • thunderbird__ 34w

    I'm tired of the city
    calling my name,
    My name to me seems as
    a tourist lost while shaking
    hands with dubiety
    I board a train to south,
    but I reach north,
    I carry my introduction
    in my luggage, stammering
    at every station,
    but when the destination arrives,
    they tell me that I've reached
    the wrong place

    Days wake up to moonlight
    and night screeches of revising
    same chapter over and over again,
    Every chapter is a book,
    Every book is nothing but
    a reprint of the Great Bengal Famine,
    even then the reader wants to read it,
    he wants to get teleported to the
    grave of millions, he wants to feel
    how a loved one helplessly weeps
    for his loss, he wants to be him,
    he wants to tell the writer that he has
    visited the same place when he secretly
    wishes he never does

    The city reeks of lies outstretching
    into truth, passengers wait to witness
    the metamorphosis, because they
    love magic, they yearn to see words
    breaking their eyes with an unseen hammer,
    they are pulled towards mystery, and
    writers are mysterious,
    Every night an exhibition is held
    in the city where writers stand naked
    revealing their stories, and spectators
    applaud their scars, and sing their praises,
    The city shines with colours,
    and homeless streets paint themselves
    with verses till they are called beautiful and adorable

    I'm tired of living as the world
    sees me,
    I'm tired of living in my own city

    @mirakee @writersnetwork

    Read More

    My own city tires me now


  • thunderbird__ 34w

    Today I accidentally placed my
    eyes on your picture,
    So I wanted to ask you,
    Did it rain there?

    I wrote sonnets, yearning for the divine,
    sitting in my balcony
    Tell me,
    Did you see a halo around your head
    this evening, when you held a mirror in your hand?

    Sun at my place reached zenith with rage,this afternoon
    and I walked barefoot on the burning floor of memories,
    Did you see a boy on the road banging his head
    against the utility pole until 'I miss you's' wrapped
    arms around his neck, today?

    I drew a bird on a crippled sky, it flew and
    sat on my shoulder, poked my skin and wrote
    ' Silent love wants to be a martyr now'
    So, my love, will you purposely place your eyes
    on my picture and set me free from this birth?

    @mirakee @writersnetwork #mirror

    Read More

    Did it rain there?


  • thunderbird__ 36w

    You miss him these days, don't you?

    His poetry, his smile, his songs, his vibes, you miss every thing. Don't you? I know you want to jump back to past and drag him to your present but this is life, and you don't get every pearl you demand. I know you feel this connection with him which may never be defined in words, like how he always looked like you twin soul, but see you just can operate your core self like he said, and universe isn't bound to act upon your advice. I know your heart is in pieces and it was never easy to let him go but darling sometimes some people are meant to stay in your heart but not your life. I know this thing worries you about his mental and physical health, you want to know about his well being, but even if things aren't fine with him, what can you do from umpteen miles away? He might be a story which you don't want the protagonist to end even if he wants to write another one with different characters. See you can't force the protagonist to mould his story to fit in your dreams but you can create poems where your breaths are still intermingled with your beloved. You can hold his hand tight, and exchange smiles with him in your metaphors.

    I know love sounded like cliche before he came into your life. Everyone you met were merely an ephemeral sand ring that faded with time, but he still encircles your finger to exist in another birth with you. Many if's and but's cross your mind, you sit with a heavy head falling on both sides with heterogenous thoughts. But listen for a moment breathe, let this moment sink in. Maybe someday you'll sit beside him, leaning on his shoulder under the stars, writing a song of rebirth for your love. Maybe this will happen or maybe this won't, but these uncertainties can not stop you from breathing this moment. See this is life, a yarn of roses and thorns. I know you expect only roses, but darling they come together in the same packet. So just sit quietly and take a deep breathe, and on count of three exhale your grief. Stretch your lips, and bow your head with gratitude for the fact that you are till alive. I know now you'll say you wish to die, but see you can never read the end page of your story until the story writer completes his book on you. So why even waste time in self pity when you know that it does nothing but stifle your breathe. Doors might be locked with dust and curse, but acceptance is the key to the door of every uncertainty. There is a power above you, stronger than you, guiding you at every step, and taking care of you. So before you again sing the song of loneliness and heartbreak, for once look in the mirror, and put that lose strand behind your ear. I am sure life will meet you again one night like a traveller just like you met him once.

    - thunderbird__

    I was so happy after reading comments on my previous hope note. So here I am posting a scribble from my old draft again hoping that it reaches like light to some dungeoned soul. ��

    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod #hopenotes

    And I can never thank you enough for this brilliant initiative.

    Read More


  • thunderbird__ 36w

    Yesterday you broke your heart again, writing one poem after another for the deceitful wind. Probably the sun must have been too warm to handle for you yesterday. Mayhaps it would have ignited your sleeping wounds. I could see how you were quiet and yet bawling in your mind for help. I could see how your anxiety didn't even let you sit straight in your chair for long. Probably the antigens on your skin turned alien yesterday and you were searching for antibodies in your dark attic. I saw how your fingers asked you to take a pause, for they were hungry, and wanted to take an afternoon nap after that, but you held them by their nape and made them carry the jute bags of your emotions. By the way I wanted to ask did that chocolate on your table ignited your smile as always? Or did it also made you travel back to the horrified past? I am sure you wouldn't have watered the sunflowers in your garden yesterday. I saw their dropped shoulders looking for their owner. And did crying for hours at night helped? Did it feel better to stand before the mirror and break down like a poem on the paper? I saw how you started writing a threnody for your past but ended up writing the song of rebirth. See words can only write truth, they may turn disguised but 'Satyamev Jayate' runs in their veins like blood. I saw how you were trying so hard to write about a parallel universe, and the mirage of your happiness, but ended up making your fingers ache with poems of yearning. I know how hard it is for you right now to hold yourself together amid the absence of haunted dreams and the deceitful winds. But can't you just hold yourself for a day? For a life is nothing but just the amalgamation of races whose track is just of twenty four hours. Obviously it extends day after day, but who knows when your breath will be transported to your pyre. I know you hold these worries about future, and endless questions about your past, but for a minute look at the rainbow of gratitude. I know, I know you see it once in a blue moon, and right now it is not even raining, but you can create your own rainbow also. Hold a paper and a pen. Then pick up the red of self love that you abandoned while growing as an adult, and slowly dig your heart, and collect other colours, that are hiding behind the facade, to save themselves from the brutal world. Mix them all on a paper, and this time write a love letter addressed to yourself. For you are love even if you sulk into pangs of hatred quickly. For you are peace even if you expand into tornadoes on every other day. For you are one who has a purpose to fulfill until your last breathe. So hold yourself together just for a day. For life isn't about years or months or weeks, it is the journey of just one day.

    ~ thunderbird__


    I happened to log in back for some reason and couldn't help scribbling after reading your recent post. You are doing a great job. Sending you tons of love and blessings.
    And I did not read this after writing so pardon me for mistakes and errors. ��
    And I will be back soon. ����

    #hopenotes @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod

    Read More

    No one can construct for you the bridge upon which precisely you must cross the stream of life, no one but you yourself alone.

    - Friedrich Nietzche