Everyone says Respect ARMY cuz they Fight for us✨ fair enough much respect for them but what about ourselves? What about those terrible battles where you are fighting against yourself? At 2AM , 3AM alone NONSTOP BATTLES, fighting with yourself, those brutal battles between Your MIND and HEART?? where you have to see and let one to win and let one to die everyone is fighting, suffering, somewhere, somehow anyways keep supporting❤️keep loving ☺️ @voiletblackfire @anjum_rizvi @futurepublisher @smily_sn @hope_from_allah @mirakee
Today her heart is skipping beats, fain She doesn't know why She's listening to songs and music again Having bid them goodbye
Having bid them goodbye Her wounded soul had healed Her emotions rendered peaceful By blocking the thorns which The tree of music would offshoot Bringing back painful memories That pierced into her soul Every song was a new thorn Ready to freshen her wounds Digging deeper with a scorn Reminding of the deceit Hollowness of love, then Fragile quality of trust, and Profligacy of all time spent In dreamy melodious world
Having bid them goodbye She was back with open eyes Into the repulsively ugly world Where everything she saw was true Real or fake, her Intellect could deduce Her heart no longer had any say The songs couldn't wrongly sway
Having bid them goodbye But then something was amiss The flower of music in her was still mysteriously blooming She thought hard for quite sometime Should she end her melody wartime ? Not all songs are enemies Some are great remedies For the worn out heart and mind They uplift the spirit of mankind
Having bid them goodbye Knowing them as unfriendly For some unknown reason She wanted a new season To usher in the soundtrack She pulled out a white flag To mark a peace treaty With songs and melody Welcoming them back into her life. And within the blink of an eye Melody and songs came alive.
Today her heart is skipping beats, fain She doesn't know why She's listening to songs and music again Having bid them goodbye.
Wind rustles as he stumbles... Awaiting the only treasure he seeked after living a life that even demons shiver thinking of... Death... His Sword Hand loosing sense with every step he takes... The path he chose, a sacrifice none could make... An endless life of the Curse of Vengeance... He took so many lives He forgot the purpose of killing them... Humanity was long lost in him for Death makes us Humans... "At last" he says as he remembers Her smile while dancing in the rain... He remembered the first time he felt Life rushing into him... He remembers the reason, Her blood soaked white gown as she lays there limp... The once radiant skin now gone pale... He remembered as his tear drop fell, Awaiting his reunion after centuries of Waiting... Chuckling at the irony of it, He found Life in Death...
My quill has ran out of ink. I remember scribbling through torn pages whilst carefully knit picking the words that my heart flusters to utter. There haven't been many times when I missed a version of me I swear I'd forgive, but the ink stains covered all over my face act as reminders to what I truly am, and what's truly meant to be.
My fascination with empty notebooks have come a long way, and it's so sadistically true that even my first of books came out of a printer machine craved out by a publisher. My happiness is still unmatched, yet I can't help but wonder how different it would've been had I carved out stories with the tip of my pen. What does it mean to be natural anyway?
I feel the rain while being locked in my room. The masks fade away when the umbrella fails to stay, and it's funny how everything moves on despite death investing more in it's targets every other day.
I pray for the clouds to be okay, while the thunder breaks hearts in a sway. I pray for the weather to be a little less grey, and a little more filled with smiles and hay. I sip a cup of coffee in my balcony, while wishing for everything to be okay, even if it's just a dream.
I sleep under a blanket of stars, yet another day with an empty quill. I feel scared if you and I are parting apart.
I gaze the world transparently through my eyes, and unlike how scared I used to be of dim light, today I sleep on a whim engulfed by stars, under my blanket of skies.
Thank you so much for the 100+ likers out there!! Really happy for spending your time in this!
-- Petals I've Shed --
Now, fervent roses lying upon the centerpiece Enswathed inside, longing of ephemeral liberosis The coruscations of vermillion daylight won't reply Upon the humid tears evaporating as complied
I stand, as the solivagant of this scurrilous lands Standing bright for the dying ones who can't A surreptitious genesis of liberty we longed for Reaching back to the millennia of our ancestors
Of igneous freedom conversing upon our deeds Opposing against their wills of appalling greed The iconoclasts repelling againsts incarceration Standing unwavered upon demagogues of indoctrination
Inexorably glinting as the prickly rose of the darkness With the warm light embosoming on what is happiness Remaining the jubilance from the subzero winters For what's right for all, we are the lone survivors
The monotonous petals gather as the orchestra Chanting the encomiums for the tears in dystopia Lamprophonies irradiating through the darkest chasms Willing to thaw the ice of their unequal nepotisms
Petals I've shed, deeming as the tears of the night Tenebrific nights come upon the windows of light Hope's still with luminosity, and not for the darkness The rose will remain invariant, longing for sacredness
i write. endlessly, incessantly. i write the most baseless of phrases and the most pointless of thoughts as i feel something entirely different churning inside me. i write emotions that are dead to me in stories that my grandmother spun out of sundry yarns. i like my art raw, wet and fragnant. i love how every word sometimes means nothing yet people translate it into something that extends beyond the four corners of my bedroom. i create, not fully. i throw away ink on paper like shells scattered in sand and my drafts make up a meaningless myriad of senses, that you wish, made sense.
however, on days when i do not write i water my dead garden of a mind and sit in a field of humus as i weave pages of nihilty into a poem of feelings that now seems to make sense to a world that does not know that feeling nothing at all is a one way road.
so on days when i do not write i spiral down every road of a traumatic non-existence and mother a poem.