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  • zohiii 5w

    when fireflies at twilight
    swoon in circles like
    little moon rocks
    reflecting the desires
    of lonely children,
    the grass of my
    backyard smells of
    ashes from the pyres
    of all the hunches
    and organised crimes,
    of all the times when
    the roads diverged
    and rights didn't feel
    righteous enough,
    or the lefts I left behind,
    of all the times my
    heart overpowered
    my senses,
    or words that I gulped
    down before
    reaching any ears;
    what're we if not a
    graveyard of dreams?
    a smile that
    perished before
    blooming and a party
    that was sucked by
    the ennui of wandering
    teenagers,
    and it's appalling how
    my memory works;
    it makes me question
    every moment—
    "Did that really happen?"
    and I lay back
    distracted, from being
    distraught,
    because nothing
    seems
    real:
    it's just have been
    dreams after dreams,
    or perhaps it's
    merely a method of
    denial, to ignore the
    obvious and obnoxious,
    and of course,
    to bury regret in an
    endless pit;
    maybe I'll wake up
    from this dream to
    another one,
    and as Billie Holiday
    said,
    "Death is no dream,"
    but life is,
    I'm certain,
    maybe tomorrow,
    when I wake up,
    you'll be a dream too,
    that I don't quite
    remember now.

    ©zohiii

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  • zohiii 6w

    with blurry sight,
    you dared to glare deep into
    the cracks of the
    erupting mountains,
    and the white-rabbit waves,
    and the blinding stars;
    crossed over at all
    the possibilities,
    when death was merely
    a mistake away.

    with hands such small,
    you encompassed the entirety
    of the universe,
    inside your palms.

    where does this strength,
    immense enough,
    come from?
    whereof is it born?

    this power that compels
    you to believe in
    happy tomorrows,
    flushing with dreams;
    with blurry sight,
    you see the future—
    ten years,
    ten minutes,
    ten blinks;
    you gamble with time,
    but time steals every round,
    and whispers in your
    ears with a wicked smile,
    "Carpe diem!"

    you know what plan
    works the best?
    no plan at all,
    because no blueprint has
    the bridges that
    break apart at the edge
    of forevers.

    with blurry sight,
    discard dreams,
    behold reality.

    ©zohiii

    Thanks @writersnetwork

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  • zohiii 6w

    Nay, dwell not in the seeping roofs,
    Hark, the battle cries of dying fires,
    Search thee not in faraway nooks,
    Of truth, truth that blazes the liars.

    Of wind chimes, hearths, laughters,
    Shall such a mortal vessel there be,
    With flesh and blood that prospers,
    I'll call it home, a heart that thinks of me.

    ©zohiii

    Thanks @writersnetwork

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  • zohiii 6w

    there's an end to suffering—
    if only Dazai had
    believed it,
    perhaps then he'd not have
    given up on living,
    maybe he'd have found his
    happiness hither
    or thither,
    and bloomed a few roses
    out of his gloom,
    maybe then it'd have been
    easier to see the silver
    lining in one dark cloud,
    but as it stands,
    there's no end to suffering,
    or so I'd arbitrarily
    believe.

    ©zohiii

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  • zohiii 8w

    when the curfew ends
    and the knell is hushed,
    and the warplanes
    retreat into their dens,
    and the roads are
    a bloodbath,
    will ye be there
    to spell out peace
    letter by letter in your
    nonchalant voice,
    will ye be there
    to clean the reluctant
    stains off my cloak,
    will ye be there
    to whisper in my ear,
    that the war was
    inevitable—
    will ye be there?

    ©zohiii

    Hi, everyone, been long!

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  • zohiii 11w

    on the crossroads,
    sometimes there's this
    the-world-is-ending high
    pandemonium and
    cataclysm,
    that makes me press
    my palms on ears to
    let my sanity from
    drifting away;
    other times, it's silent—
    as calm as a cuckoo's
    nest after her mother
    croon is sung,
    or the sky at twilight;
    the sole sound heard
    far and wide is that of
    verbs manifesting
    themselves;
    still I stand betwixt a
    stream of passers-by,
    and in that moment,
    I live, before the silence
    is consumed by the
    hullabaloo yet again;
    I dwell in the pauses,
    the silence that they
    oft call awkward,
    the spaces that they
    consider unnecessary,
    the countable seconds
    before the dusk
    or dawn or the breath
    of a shooting star;
    I live there;
    and I live in your eyes,
    that possess the
    prowess to hush the
    needles of time
    whenever you please;
    I live whenever I look
    in your eyes.

    your worth is like a
    dragon, but it's
    tattooed on the nape
    of your neck—
    and you won't see it,
    but I can, so would you
    believe me if I said,
    you're a fierce dragon,
    with mighty
    in its wrath wings,
    and fire in your guts;
    there's warmth
    in your embrace;
    time plays ring a ring
    o' roses around you,
    and the sky holds up
    a little more
    than usual, gazing you;
    you are a pause,
    a pause that always
    rushes and slips away
    from my fingers.

    ©zohiii

    @raika_

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  • zohiii 12w

    the last patches of fresh sunlight
    routed away, summer anthems
    whisked off from radios,
    and the morning coffee
    began cooling down sooner.

    I tore from my cocoon,
    to face cold winds against my skin;
    cold breeze, harbinger of tears;
    sliding the curtains to the sides,
    I saw outside,
    and I saw nothing.

    it was Viserion's breath,
    that enveloped all
    enclosures in sight;
    and I strode cluelessly,
    like a ghost with no history
    left behind and no history to
    manufacture, I just walked.

    and they say the best poetry is
    found in the simplest things;
    I saw something glittering
    betwixt the thick layer of vague
    compromising my vision,
    and had a flashback,
    of a textbook saying,
    "beware! all that glitters,
    is not gold." and I wondered,
    what if the greed for gold
    didn't drive me,
    but the curiosity to find out
    what sparkles, and parallels
    the sheen of gold,
    and isn't gold, so I could push
    and become that thing,
    because I sometimes glitter
    too but they
    say I'm worthless,
    because the proverb will
    always have gold,
    but I'm merely a piece of
    corroded copper.

    cars zoom past,
    and the drivers they raise eyebrows,
    and they smirk and ask,
    "why do you have to see poetry
    in everything, what's wrong?"
    and I fall back on silence,
    because poetry seeks you
    and you are a
    mere vessel,
    who when breached by beauty
    is supposed to feel it,
    and not withdraw,
    it seeps and soaks like candy
    in your veins,
    so how can I not be a romantic,
    even for catastrophes and
    disasters?
    "why do you not see poetry in
    everything, what's wrong?"

    Viserion's cold blood,
    and freezing skin is scorched
    from Apollo's wrath,
    and his mighty breaths retreat,
    I take the bridge that doesn't
    burn from passion, and passing,
    and throw my shoes in
    the river that travels the world,
    and kisses the sea at last.

    from far, I see the doorknob
    of my dull asylum,
    but I spot a swallowtail
    butterfly swooning in the
    balcony around a sunflower,
    and pass the door of gloom,
    with brazen footsteps,
    because I know, there'll always
    be a poem, anywhere,
    for everyone who craves it.

    ©zohiii

    @raika_ #dragons

    @writersnetwork thanks for reposting! :D

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  • zohiii 12w

    in a sea of plain faces—
    all as featureless as
    the ones Bond's Mr. Oliver
    saw on a dark, eerie night,
    but the difference was
    that it was broad daylight;
    a handful few would
    sigh at the feeling of
    bathing in light,
    feeling trapped
    in the dark.

    in blacks, a sea of
    unknown faces,
    there were voids in my
    heart and each one
    a living night of its own,
    I couldn't see
    anyone's face because
    above their necks
    there was nothing but
    darkness,
    no eyes to stare,
    no lips to argue,
    no nose to scrunch,
    and then they all stood
    up to leave;
    bumping against my body,
    as if I was unwanted,
    unowned, orphaned,
    abandoned, deserted, and
    everything became
    strange,
    so strange.

    I turned to the only face
    I could see, covered
    up in the smoke from
    the incense sticks,
    stuck inside a frame,
    wept and mourned with
    white-knuckled wails—

    "firefly, you left soon,
    but the night is growing cold,
    no light to hold on,
    the sunrise seems faraway,
    why must fireflies die so young?"

    ©zohiii

    • Last stanza is a tanka.

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  • zohiii 12w

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  • zohiii 12w

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