_poeticheart_

IG:@_.poeticheart._ Writer❤️

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  • _poeticheart_ 21h

    ᴇᴛᴇʀɴɪᴛɪᴇs ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ, ɪ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ sᴏᴍᴇᴏɴᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ғᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏғ sᴇʟғ-ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ғʀᴀɢᴍᴇɴᴛs ᴏғ ᴍʏ sᴏᴜʟ
    ᴀɴᴅ
    ɪ ʀᴇᴀʟɪsᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀ sᴏᴜʟ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ sᴇʟғ-ʟᴏᴠᴇ sᴏᴜɴᴅs ᴊᴜsᴛ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴀ ᴄᴏɴsᴛᴇʟʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ sᴛᴀʀs.

    ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ,
    ɪғ ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅɪɴɢ ᴛʜɪs, ɪ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴛʜᴀᴛ,
    ᴅɪsɢᴜɪsᴇᴅ ᴀs ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴇᴀᴄʜɪɴɢs ᴏғ sᴇʟғ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴏᴘᴇ.

    ~ᴋʜᴜsʜɪ

  • _poeticheart_ 21h

    ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ɪɴ ʙɪᴛs ᴀɴᴅ ᴘɪᴇᴄᴇs
    sɪɴᴄᴇ
    ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍʏ ʙᴏᴅʏ ʜᴇʟᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ ᴡᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ғʀᴀɢᴍᴇɴᴛs ᴏғ ᴍʏ sᴏᴜʟ.

    ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴀs ᴀ ᴡʜᴏʟᴇ
    ᴀɴᴅ
    ʏᴏᴜʀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴛʜᴇs ᴏɴ ᴍʏ sᴋɪɴ ʜᴀᴅ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ɢʟᴜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴍɴᴀɴᴛs ᴏғ ᴍʏ sᴏᴜʟ.

    ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴍɪsᴇs ᴏғ ᴀɴ ᴇᴛᴇʀɴɪᴛʏ, ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴏᴠᴇᴅ ᴍᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴀɴ ʏᴇᴀʀ ᴏʀ sᴏ
    ᴀɴᴅ
    ᴡʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ʟᴇғᴛ, ɪ ʜᴀᴅ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴅᴇᴠᴇʟᴏᴘɪɴɢ ᴄʀᴀᴄᴋs ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʀᴇᴠɪᴄᴇs ᴡɪᴛʜɪɴ.

  • _poeticheart_ 1d

    ɪɴᴅᴇᴇᴅ, ʟᴏᴠᴇ ʙᴇʜᴏʟᴅs ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴜs ɪɴ ᴜɴᴇxᴘᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ᴡᴀʏs.

    ~ᴋʜᴜsʜɪ

  • _poeticheart_ 1d

    ᴛᴏᴅᴀʏ,
    ᴏᴜʀ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇs ᴄᴏʟʟɪᴅᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏᴏᴋ ғᴀʀᴇ ᴀɴᴅ sʜᴇ ʟᴀɴᴅᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴍʏ ᴀʀᴍs,
    sʜᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, ʜᴇʀ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ᴄᴏᴀᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴅ
    ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴜʀɴᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ ᴀ ᴘᴀɪɴᴛᴇʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ʙʟᴜɪsʜ ʀᴇᴅ sᴛᴀᴍᴘs ᴏғ ᴍʏ ᴘᴀʟᴍs ᴏɴ ʜᴇʀ ᴡʜɪᴛᴇ ᴄᴏᴀᴛ sᴀɪᴅ.

    ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛs ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ, ᴀ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏ ғᴇʟʟ ғʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀ ʙᴀᴄᴋᴘᴀᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ɪᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴡ ᴜs ʙᴀᴄᴋ ɪɴ ᴛɪᴍᴇ

    ᴡᴇ ᴡᴇʀᴇ 15 ᴀɴᴅ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ, ᴡᴇ ʜᴀᴅ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇᴅ ᴀ ʟɪᴇ
    ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴛᴏʀɪᴇs ᴏғ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ sᴛᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀsᴛ ʙᴇɴᴄʜ ᴏғ ᴛʜᴇ sᴄʜᴏᴏʟ ᴅɪᴅɴ'ᴛ ʟᴀsᴛ
    ᴀғᴛᴇʀ ʏᴇᴀʀs, ᴏᴜʀ ᴘɪᴄᴛᴜʀᴇs ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴏʟᴅ ᴘʜᴏᴛᴏɢʀᴀᴘʜs ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴏᴜʟᴅ ʙᴇ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ ʟʏɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴀᴠᴇʏᴀʀᴅ ( ℎ)
    ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴀᴛ, sʜᴇ ᴀs ᴀ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ ᴡᴀs ᴀʀᴛ
    ᴀɴᴅ ɪ ᴀs ᴀ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴ ᴡᴀs ᴄᴀʟᴄᴜʟᴀᴛᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ.

  • _poeticheart_ 1d

    i) You broke the mirror into pieces and I was asked to walk on them. With every drop of blood that oozed out from the bottom of my feet, you made a pattern on the floor, a pattern that signified love wrapped up in infinite pains.

    ii) You apply ointment on my feet and kiss the tender edges of them. You caress the rough edges of my skin, move fingers through my hairs and then pull strands of them.

    --I know that you love me and the redness of my skin as well.

    iii) I accidentally cut my little finger in the mother. Mother-in-law asks if it hurt and I reply that red signifies love and love never hurts. You smile at me and leave for work.

    iv) Under the shower, I move fingers through my bare back and oh, it doesn't hurt, the bruises, they don't hurt. I'm made of bruises more than skin except at the tender edges you'll feed with love.

    v) The clock strikes two of the midnight and you feed me some lemonade and then you feed me with love of your leather belt.

    vi) You break the lemonade glass into pieces, but this time you walk on them and the blood that oozes out, you apply it on my stomach.
    "Red signifies love, love signifies red and so does pain,'' you whisper as you move fingers through the pain.

    vii) ''Until when do you want me to continue this sin?"
    "Until this life is finally expelled out of me."

    viii) You cry, I know you never wanted to cause this to me. We'd this for our fourth daughter so that she survives through the pain of female foeticide unlike the three of our daughters, if they (your family) commits any this time too, just like her mumma and dad did.

    ~Khushi
    @poetaarvi_

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    ʀᴇᴅ sɪɢɴɪғɪᴇs ʟᴏᴠᴇ
    ʟᴏᴠᴇ sɪɢɴɪғɪᴇs ʀᴇᴅ
    ᴀɴᴅ sᴏ ᴅᴏᴇs ᴘᴀɪɴ-1

  • _poeticheart_ 3d

    i) The swing in the backyard that moves to and fro with the wind as if inviting us to swing on it together for another last time while trying to count the innumerable stars on the crescent moonlight sky with our little fingers.

    ii) The woolen ball M-A-A sits with through the nights weaving cute sweaters for you and then your favourite red and black jhumkas too with a hope that you might rediscover the path of "US" someday.

    iii) The candy floss packets that the 71 year old Rahim Chacha still carries on his stick though nobody buys them from him now. With the packets, he peeps through the crevices of the wall in the backyard hoping that you may turn back someday and demand him some candy floss free of cost. The crevices in the wall are what makes our existence pointless day after day.

    iv) The bells that the "ice cream angel" (what you usually used to call him) still rings reminds me of the tinkling of your anklets as you would run through the streets behind him while holding my hands. Why did you leave them amidst?

    v) The JODHA AKBAR movie that I watch every night reminds me of us dancing to the tunes of Jashn-e-Bahara atleast in my head.

    vi) The unposted letters in my cupboard that I wrote reviewing each of your books and blogs, the postman comes to collect them everyday but he returns them after not finding an appropriate address.

    vii) The telephone you last called on before leaving the town seven years back has started weaving spider webs around itself now. Today, I sit by it reading your latest release and I find the spiders disintegrating their own webs. I wonder for a moment but then I indulge myself in reading all over again. The next moment, the telephone rings and I assume it to be a mere hallucination that I frequently go through these days.
    The spiders now tuck on my upper arm as the telephone rings again.
    I receive it,
    "Of two people who fell in love at a tender age and then lost it somewhere midway,
    Could you help me revive it again and maybe altogether we can give it a better end?" the voice on the other side said.

    ~Khushi

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    ᴏғ ᴀʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛʜɪɴɢs ᴛʜᴀᴛ
    sᴛɪʟʟ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴏғ ʏᴏᴜ.

  • _poeticheart_ 4d

    ɪ ᴄʜᴏᴏsᴇ ᴀʟᴢʜᴇɪᴍᴇʀ's ᴛᴏ ʙᴇ
    ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴏғ ᴍʏ ʟɪғᴇ.

  • _poeticheart_ 5d

    ᴛᴏ ᴄʟᴀᴘ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴄᴀʟs ᴏʀ ᴛᴏ ʙᴇɢ
    ᴀʟᴏɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ sᴛʀᴇᴇᴛs;
    ᴛᴇʟʟ ᴜs ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀsᴏɴ ғᴏʀ ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴇxɪsᴛ.

  • _poeticheart_ 1w

    Last night when the coffee spilled o'er my palm, I didn't shriek in rage. I silently tiptoed to the kitchen and without looking aside for the demons in my mind, I brought in some ice packs. Placing them over the palms was way more relieving than what you used to do with my burnt palms.

    ii) Under the shower, my soul soaked itself in the warmth of blood inside me. In a way, it felt more comfortable than the warmth of your hugs.

    iii) While my soul is soaked in the warmth of blood and body in the coldness of water, I move my fingers from the scars on my chest to the creases on my palms and retrace my own depths.

    iv) Just below the first scar on my chest, I retrace the crevices in the left ventricle of my heart and I fill them with my favourite metaphors temporarily until I mend the crevices for one final time.

    v) Below the second scar, I retrace the crevices in my right ventricle and I fill them with puns for it is the part that hurts the most.

    vi) Under the third scar and in between of the four chambers of heart, I retrace a string/chord. I don't know whom it belongs to so I simply cut it off and I feel the pain lessening and my blood embracing the soul with more warmth. Maybe, it was a string that connected our hearts.

    vii) I continue this for days to come and now the coffee has stopped spilling over my palms, under the scars I can no more retrace the crevices in my heart, maybe I have mended them finally.

    viii) Even after days, I'm still insomniac. The blurred visions of us walking on the streets at midnight flash right infront of my eyes and I find myself in the middle of nowhere all over again. Not this time, this time I won't let your memories overpower my mind. I'm a calculated person at heart, you see and that's why it took me no time to mend the crevices. But my mind, it is full of flashbacks, the memory of your cute nose pin peeps into my heart through the edges of my mind.

    ix) My heart starts draining in the pain and starts developing crevices all over again. The war between the flashbacks peeping from the edges and the permanently mended heart is won by the heart this time. It starts reciting the metaphors I burrowed in the deepest corners of my heart and now the flashbacks grow weaker.

    x) I maintain a journal since that day in which I write poems everyday. The last lines of which say, "You could never break me darling for I never let you overpower my intuitions." The flashbacks are now weakened to the core and they fall off from the edges of my artsy mind.

    xi) My calculated heart and artsy mind now shake hands, my blood embraces my existence with more warmth and I win the war of self-love that day.

    "I'll never let you overpower me darling," they continue to enchant the slogan of my existence and I survive through a heartache.

    ~Khushi
    @poetaarvi_Last night when the coffee spilled o'er my palm, I didn't shriek in rage. I silently tiptoed to the kitchen and without looking aside for the demons in my mind, I brought in some ice packs. Placing them over the palms was way more relieving than what you used to do with my burnt palms.

    ii) Under the shower, my soul soaked itself in the warmth of blood inside me. In a way, it felt more comfortable than the warmth of your hugs.

    iii) While my soul is soaked in the warmth of blood and body in the coldness of water, I move my fingers from the scars on my chest to the creases on my palms and retrace my own depths.

    iv) Just below the first scar on my chest, I retrace the crevices in the left ventricle of my heart and I fill them with my favourite metaphors temporarily until I mend the crevices for one final time.

    v) Below the second scar, I retrace the crevices in my right ventricle and I fill them with puns for it is the part that hurts the most.

    vi) Under the third scar and in between of the four chambers of heart, I retrace a string/chord. I don't know whom it belongs to so I simply cut it off and I feel the pain lessening and my blood embracing the soul with more warmth. Maybe, it was a string that connected our hearts.

    vii) I continue this for days to come and now the coffee has stopped spilling over my palms, under the scars I can no more retrace the crevices in my heart, maybe I have mended them finally.

    viii) Even after days, I'm still insomniac. The blurred visions of us walking on the streets at midnight flash right infront of my eyes and I find myself in the middle of nowhere all over again. Not this time, this time I won't let your memories overpower my mind. I'm a calculated person at heart, you see and that's why it took me no time to mend the crevices. But my mind, it is full of flashbacks, the memory of your cute nose pin peeps into my heart through the edges of my mind.

    ix) My heart starts draining in the pain and starts developing crevices all over again. The war between the flashbacks peeping from the edges and the permanently mended heart is won by the heart this time. It starts reciting the metaphors I burrowed in the deepest corners of my heart and now the flashbacks grow weaker.

    x) I maintain a journal since that day in which I write poems everyday. The last lines of which say, "You could never break me darling for I never let you overpower my intuitions." The flashbacks are now weakened to the core and they fall off from the edges of my artsy mind.

    xi) My calculated heart and artsy mind now shake hands, my blood embraces my existence with more warmth and I win the war of self-love that day.

    "I'll never let you overpower me darling," they continue to enchant the slogan of my existence and I survive through a heartache.

    ~Khushi
    @poetaarvi_

    Read More

    ʜᴏᴡ ɪ sᴜʀᴠɪᴠᴇᴅ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴀ
    H̶E̶A̶R̶T̶B̶R̶E̶A̶K̶ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴀᴄʜᴇ?

  • _poeticheart_ 1w

    Itne Dard ke baad bhi muskura raha hoon
    Dekh zindagi tujhe kese hara raha hoon