1) Stories of remembrance, words of wisdom. They tell you stories of void in nothingness, reminiscences of past.
2) Stories told when you're alive, stories being told when you're dead. Stories of flowers on your death bed, stories of your albums when you're gone.
3) Stories being told and stories being lost, stories that weave themselves, stories that hide between lines. Stories that end with a full stop and stories that don't end but take new turns. Stories that are dead in the petals between your diary.
4) Stories of stars that are burning from years and giving hopes when dying, stories of life in cursive then to calligraphy. Stories of origami folds holding stories. Stories of rubik's cube holding the elementary days.
5) Stories of being a speckle of everyone else's vibrant spectrum. Stories of decorating scars, stories of sandy footprints of fantasies. Stories of promises, stories of their denials.
6) Stories are everywhere on the edge, in the middle. You carry stories on wrist under your watch. You carry stories in the folds of your sleeves. Just how you dust off stories while removing the creases of your shirt.
Ps: Saying sorry for being inactive from the corner.
I dream of places I've never been to. Of wonders I've never seen before, of people I've never met, of destinations I've been dreaming since ages to reach, of views from the tall buildings of crowded streets and neverending roads. I've been dreaming of learning cosmic mysteries, of stars and moon.
I've been dreaming of creating forever memories in this little infinity, collecting and dancing over small happiness I've been dreaming of becoming a star so bright with full of light. I've been dreaming of things that resonate with my core, flawed but worthy, of endless possibilities of celebrating myself over time each day, every day.
I dream of lying between tainted pages of old novels to feel the emotions of hundreds who once touched it and found their home in it. I dream of reading unpopular fictions, some classics and lots of vintage poems. I dream of touching every art with the same purity as that artist's pureness of creating it.
I dream of making myself as the last person that should matter to myself the most and keep shining in who I am. I've been dreaming of bringing the change, reading all good books out there, being unapologetically me, tracing my fingers over all masterpieces created during times. I've been dreaming to live some memories forever. I've been dreaming of little infinities in this infinite world.
-Richa (And the list continues but here I stop)
PS: Hello Mirakeeans, you can take "I've been dreaming" as a prompt and create your writeups. Let us share our little infinities in words. One liners or to any number of lines, you can write. And don't forget to tag me !! HAPPY INKING I'll check out the submissions till Monday night.
You stare at unknown shadows and observe patterns on the floor, somehow claiming to be in love with people's eyes. You make yourself comfort in shadows of the known and long to touch the new and unknown.
While portraying your character as an artist I think you weave words inside your head. You write, you live and you fly, just that it's all in your head. And soon enough when you'll get perfect gist you slowly slip your head on to the canvas or on to a paper or to somewhere which is unknown to you, to me, and to us.
You might be talking in or to stars wondering about dark secrets of night which she holds within her tenebrous folds. You're afraid that someday you'll be left to flip through pages, blazing through the silence of the night acoustic in air.
You believe that your words, your action, your thoughts will burst into a cascade of a thousand petals. You believe stories are everywhere and nowhere, inside and outside all around about. You believe for everything that occurs in life finds a place in poetic compositions or in any other form of masterpiece. You know that you were never meant to be held in some captivating words, the mere stanzas and verses, you are the whole of story. You know that it's never too early or late to meet the real you.
Your song so sweet to my ears, My guardian angel forever dear, I read you on faces unseen, Hear you.
When the sky is turning blue and we are centuries apart Let me kneel in front of you. Where people are writing syllables we cannot imagine, syllables we can only feel and endure.
Yet no matter what, as immortal souls and mortal beings, we tend to have ties towards other souls, pull towards people, a sense of belonging and collectiveness; and as long as that exists, the line between fictional poetry and the reality of the regular will continue to be blurred, and the boundary perpetually crossed, and every relationship, every knowing will walk as much in reality, as it dance in poetry and fiction.
Here I'm, book marking sands of good times, Scenting every metaphors with life, Inking the words to merge this journey into cosmic stillness, I'm on course like the stars, falling and sparkling and making my way through the darkness before I fall to dust.
Yours truly, A girl who has found happiness in you.
Thank you @writersnetwork for the kind repost ! ________________________________________________
Daylight never offers her the kalon soothing roughness of pillow fights with night or the silk that only moonlight knows. She curls her lips like romancing with her poetry with silence dancing on her bosom, sneezing and holding time. She knows that surreal romance, clicking noises of seizures and tears, of ink and words.
Like Greek philosophers, she's also believing that expression of kalon may be in writing verses after verses, words after words, beautiful yet incomplete expressing the same old thoughts again and again, with the same old heart.
Sometimes, she falls in love with trays of colors, a texture, an old faded wall, a rusted old page of a diary, a temple because they speak a language that tells her about spiral existence, tells her the omen of things to come, of kalon of pure art.
She dreams in colors that drive away the blues. She wants to swivel in the freedom of the wind, her fragrance spreads gently with a breeze. She's the lover of words. She's the museum of shifted identities, a galaxy of romanticized dreams and passion.
Kalon; for her defines the eyes that see beauty in everything, with a heart that expands with visions to write and read and explore, to live peacefully in oneness.
Kalon; for her is where daisies sing like little birds, where life doesn't stop at one or few windows: it does takes a lot of courage to realise this and much more courage to lose few things.
Kalon in dreams at night, her soul flies light Across the sky, across the ocean. What does it take to keep awake for hopes to soar, For dreams to roar?!
Just a moment of eternal courage and eyes to see the moral beauty not over the skin or below it but the one which reflects one's heart on sleeves and stars in eyes and stardust in character which leaves starry nightlight wherever it goes.
Rispetto #1: Poem comprised of two quatrains written in iambic (unstress, stress) tetrameter (four feet--or, in this case, 8 syllables).
Rispetto #2: Poem (or song) comprised of 8 hendecasyllabic (11-syllable) lines--usually one stanza.
Both versions appear to follow this rhyme scheme: ababccdd (though I also found a mention of an abababcc pattern). Plus, I found more than a few sources which claim rispettos were originally written to pay "respect" to a woman.
All the sickness isn't turned to poetry because it can't be. It's meant to stay there only, filled up till your vocal chords. It's there to mock you when you say you are a writer. You rub your hands together and try to dig out some good lines from this sickness but you fail. So you choose to just sit there and see yourself dissolve in it.
My existence is a forest with cinnamon barks, And endured wildfires, When even the merriest of seasons, Autumn pierces through my skin, And Autumn hangs like a machete on my neck, Beauty at its worst. There's this unspoken euphoria , On my eyelids, Tired from fighting with conventional, Melanin matters(?) My Body is a dying safflower, Yet alive between the pages of some best-seller, Beauty is not a myth Is not beauty a myth? But myths are paper planes That swoosh slightly on my skin A feeble touch burns my bones Night jasmines in my neighborhood Rustle in my cochlea Uttering that the night in me Never makes it to the sun My flaws aren't a imbecile The magazines in my drawer Pukes these fallacies Everyone is beautiful These phrases land on me But terms and conditions Oh ! Those pages are cheap Charred maps and elfin continents There are scars on them Always ticked unseen Still does beauty reside in me Or are there lies in my dictionary?