In response to Mirakee's paradox writing prompt of yesterday, I wrote this, in Hindi. I don't usually write in Hindi(as you must have observed from my posts) so I am highly nervous Do give your feedback.
Word meanings: Virodhabas:Paradox Paltav: resilience Pragyata: intelligence
Look at yourself Fighting all your way Your weary limbs Hidden under your lion's roar And your unworldly resolve. Look at yourself Your tired eyes betraying all they've seen And been through. But your mouth still curves into a smile And your feet still walk miles. You don't seem to care About the burning sun Or the blisters on your soles But you do You're just scared that no one will accept that being broken makes you whole. They expect you to be perfect Cracks to magically disappear They break you every day And scorn you if you cry. So you've taught yourself To bleed transparently And give your tears The name of rain. They don't care, You tell yourself. They don't care about the pain. But they're still jealous of the gain. So you smile, Bitterly, yes, But one needs a very fine lens To perceive that. And so you plough on Trampling on weeds and flowers alike. Cause you're so intent On setting up walls. Broken is beautiful You tell yourself when you're alone But you still pounce furiously At the light that dares to shine through your cracks. Look at yourself Carrying your world on your shoulders Convincing everybody that the load is nothing, it's easy. Sometimes you aren't even conscious But your feet still carry on That's all they've ever known. Look at yourself Learning through life But still hating the scars It left as gifts through time . Look at yourself Hanging in there By a single thread Even though it's so hard To cling to life and not embrace death. If nobody told you today What they should But probably felt too shy to say You're the light that shines through their night Don't give up You've taught them to fight. And this numbness around you? It gives feeling to many around you. So if nobody told you Just by doing your part Clinging on And loving despite your broken heart You are important And your weary limbs Will have enough strength To carry you Through everything Life flings.
Name: Mr/Ms.Anger. Age: All age category suffer from this. Education: PhD in breaking relations, disturbing peace and ruining lives. Birth: When misunderstandings and poor communication took place. Death: Defeated by positivity and patience. Family: Frustration(Mother), Hatred (Father), Jealousy and Violence (Siblings). Funeral details: Today, the departed soul of Anger will be cremated into the left chamber of the heart. Due to the ongoing COVID-19 pandemic, only close family members will be present. For rest, condolences in prayers only. A humble request to all, not to gather. Contact details: 1- Address: Flat no. 3, Emotion Housing Society, Heart-Mind-Soul road, Human body. 2- Contact number: 1355-1553.
Words of the Family in grief: It is difficult for us to believe that my child 'Anger' is no more. It's really the most sorrowful day ever and surely, we all will miss his/her presence. RIP, Anger. : Frustration (Mother of Anger).
Letter writing shall never go out of trend because the joy of reading handwritten words will never fade. But have you ever written a letter to a complete stranger ? Today's challenge revolves around this idea!
--Write a heartfelt letter to a stranger.--
You have no clue as to who shall be reading the letter so write whatever comes to your mind, your pain, longings , happiness or anything else that comes to your mind. Just be original and creative!
My father is a beautiful man even if all he tries to be is a good father I wonder what gave it away, was it the luggage on his shoulders that he effortlessly outstretched to engulf me in his arms or was it the hundred rupee note that he used to buy biscuits for stray dogs.
My father has a bird caged in his pot like belly that rumbles everytime he laughs as if this was the only freedom he craved- to let enough air for the bird inside.
My father asks me, why don't I make his portrait, how do I tell him I don't know how to draw the lies that cover every inch of his face, and that his eyes photograph an ocean so still that I refuse to paint them before he swims back to the shore.
My father is a liar for he has a stomach for quantity and he gulps down food to resist its taste from lingering in his mouth, yet he tells my mother the salt was little low, I crouch above the set of colors he bought me and wonder if my dreams too are like the salt that he never tasted but swallowed and fed to the bird in his belly, just to hope a little more, to strengthen his shoulders a little more, to suppress his cravings for a little more.
Poetry, did you miss me? I'd been away to bleach my metaphors, for the love that you personify. I am a pessimist, a pathetic paradox of alliterations, driven by paranoia, a pointless prose before your pricky poems, but blanch my metaphors I couldn't, for with a palette so pallid, how'd I be your muse?
Poetry, you are a plant, bred from my thoughts, you grow as we go, piercing and winding, embellished with flowers so beautiful - a caricature of my toxic mind, but barren hearts relish the venom of lust, for it is quite a charade to the elixir of your love, so I pluck them away, press them between the pages of my journal, and send them to hypocrites who fail to romanticize the idea of loving thorns.
Poetry, you fill my voids, and caress my face with such endearment that the nothing that I've been staring at becomes everything that will never leave me alone. I am a victim of my past, you, my current salvation, but I'm a slave, a coward who hands over her deity to be the music for the dance of her demons.
Poetry, would you steal for me? The light of countless stars, without an inch of the dark; clouds of prejudice hang from my eyelashes and I tell you that you aren't worth the hype for you couldn't even extract the enchantments of starlight, but for all that I fail to be, all that you ever tell me is that I was more than enough.
Poetry, you are an ocean, a high tide on a full moon, and I a ship crossing the bar, while craving for the quiet. Healing hurts yet my mast fails to be lulled into the abyss of the night, and my sails roar wildly with the ebb of the waves, refusing to be run around. When have I not condemned your kindness, so I do again, even when a wrecked ship, you voyage through the lane.
Poetry, you are ice, that burns with a rage so devastatingly beautiful that you bewitch even the happy souls to admire the pain in your elegies, and foxes in your fables, a riddle full of manipulations and interpretations, your strength is dispersed at every face of a Rubik's cube, but what is it, if I fail to realize it, so all your are - are not pearls that irk me - but hollow oyster shells that confuse thee.
Poetry, what fold is it, where colors paint the night, oceans transition into ice, the wind plans the flowers' demise and along cuddle all my crimes? You ask me if I'd unfold you and try again, and I answer you by unfolding and crumbling and throwing the paper away. On a new sheet, I write, "Poetry, did you miss me?"