anandarupa_chakrabarti

free minded . joined Mirakee on 7th Jan 2018

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  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 1d

    A subtle shadow, with a heart of kid,
    A wardrobe of caged pains,
    heaped by old sack of endless clothes.

    A walk beyond the clock
    A walk, timeless.
    A walk to render a future.

    He builds house of
    Faith, Safety and Security,
    engulfing my fear,
    demarkating a path of truelove.

    A bag of unfulfilled dreams,
    who never he acknowledged
    Surpassed his all, to see me realise daydream.

    His happiness is at stake, with a 10 feet tall and bulletproof ego of a sub conscious generation,
    that can't be ungaped at all.
    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti






    Happy Father's Day, my lovely Mirakee.
    "10 feet tall and bulletproof" credited to Travis Tritt.

    #father #cees10feetchal #laughing_soul #pod

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    A walk beyond the clock
    A walk, timeless.
    A walk to render a future.
    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 2d

    Homeless thoughts
    A lucifer was lit
    Blank are these pages
    To which a creative mind speaks.

    Homeless thoughts
    Trapped dreams
    Fetching allure from
    The wallpaper of the asthetic sky.

    Homeless thoughts
    Bracketed in a poetry
    An oblivious passion
    Which evolved into a writer's story.
    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 4d

    Word invented: amourocation - love for words

    There are words & quotes
    juggling inside my steamed brain
    warning over the price of my amourocation.

    I write & write!
    Frequently, found I, playing with sombre emotions
    deliberately, knitting them on the paper's flesh.

    My amourocatousness ,
    has made the world against me,
    infuriated & affirmed,
    of my life's uselessness.

    But thy,
    don't understand, my wounds don't heal,
    unless ,I surrender to him.
    The echoes of lament and joy, love and betrayed
    are my forever words, irrespective what Yin & Yang holds in this world,
    only my forever words, stick to my heart.

    My papers, adore the peaceful syncing
    it's adores my sublime pain.
    papers are wet with tears of rejection,
    still it maintains the thresholds of a wise saint.

    I don't know,
    only my forever words, stick to my heart,
    I write, write & write !

    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

    #ceeswordinvent #laughing_soul #pod

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    But thy,
    don't understand, my wounds don't heal,
    unless ,I surrender to him.
    The echoes of lament and joy, love and betrayed
    are my forever words, irrespective what Yin & Yang holds in this world,
    only my forever words, stick to my heart.
    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 1w

    I wake up sometimes
    At 2am sharp.
    Drenched in sweat and impatiently thirsty,
    A dream or a nightmare?
    What it was?
    Made me oneirophobic .

    I wake sometimes
    Aiming to write anonymously
    About what is there , revolving in my heart and brain.
    Then , the thing I feel is EMPTY.
    I empathise that voidity.
    Alas! I failed to write.

    Yesterday, I woke
    Having heard the thunder sounds!!
    In the scorching nights heat of 45°C
    A hope of a beautiful rain.
    My father ,leaps out of the bed. Like in an instant.
    Without a blink. He never made me realise anything.

    On 1st June,
    I was travelling, through clouds and skies.
    Not a single organisms lives.
    Where only,
    There are silhouettes of silence and heights wilderness.

    I wake sometimes,
    Feeling the swing of the lofty pall
    The hills of clouds,
    Pilling upon the clear sky..
    How awesome, it would be to float in the air?
    If the clouds, resides in here?
    Then why is God's real residence is so rear ?

    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti


    #pod #writersnetwork #mirakee @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 1w

    This room is a voice of voidicity
    I left this place one year ago
    In blankets of parched translucent memories.
    I enjoyed it. Very. Very much.
    Coz I was who this place shoved light on everyday.

    This room is a voice of voidicity.
    Im still not forgotten about how
    Little squirrel mum sat on my bed calling it a round table conference with it's family mates.

    This room is a passionate void
    In the hues of greys and black
    I first saw it ,admist of all mess
    I decided to finally paint it red.

    Through these days & still now.
    I found a poet's door that ran throughout
    In a journey of love and life.

    I still can recall,
    Awestruck I were always to see my miniature version in the picture frame right at the centre of the room.
    And how my neighbour's children tilted their heads in "aaawwww" shapes indicating that child that's actually me.

    I see now & my then self
    And walks is my teenage esteem of
    How my stomach used to erupt the flying butterflies in a crave to write on one's life.
    I found nothing to explore the sensational eruption.

    When I finally started writing,
    There was no turning back
    The room, that echoed voice of my tormented silence.
    Engulfed me in various shapes and disorders.
    I was an addict of something good
    I was addicted to have reading it's own poetries.

    I still don't regret of how amusing it was
    Those late night musing,
    I don't regret if my mother, ever since then witnessed me scribbling,
    I still don't regret having created time
    For my first ever fictional handwriting.

    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

    #witness #mirakee #writersnetwork #pod @writersnetwork @mirakee


    @ni89gale @my_cup_of_poetry For my lovelies ��

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    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 2w

    It's the month of June
    A season of nurture & care
    The span of time
    Where poetry sings to it's heart content
    The books smell like vintage air.
    And steal the raindrops
    To create a lifetime romance.

    It's the month of June
    My pen wishes to dance queerily
    My ambitions are high,
    To touch the vibgyor and to melt my wings and fly

    It's the month of June
    Since the mother earth florishes
    With it's own blooms and blossoms.

    It's the month of June
    Where earth is a silhouette consisting grace
    The vibrant hues sky
    Soaked underneath are the brusty clouds
    Which just can't control the thresholds of showering flow.

    Deep beneath the areas where I stand
    Dusty dark paths, which are led by my
    Imperfect footprints.

    It's the month of June
    And how I see ,childhood joy
    Of waiting for the shower
    So as to rush out fast,& play their football.
    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 2w

    Reeled in glossy frames
    Searching for the stardust glamour
    Torment my heart is ,that's what was meant
    U kept me in despair throughout, influencing my face
    Oh Mirror! You could have atleast been truthful.

    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 2w

    कभी कभी लगता है कि मेरा येही मन,
    न देखकर भी, मेरी अनगिनत खामोशियां पड़ लती है, बिल्कुल चुप्पी से ।
    और व खमोशियों के सहारे मेरी,
    मेरे जीवन का गीत,सवार जाता है!

    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 3w

    For a writer..life is a passion.
    A deep beneath flood of emotions.
    The supressed queerness in his observation
    A writer seems to see both worlds of fantasy and reality.

    For a writer.. life is a blank page.
    Scribbled in amor or sometimes a book of relentless confessions. A dramatic rise where only the sun & moon are the witness of their love.

    For a writer... life is universal duty.
    Where life means science.
    Where earth is a timeless entity
    And humanity is a process
    In this fast sped machinery.

    For a writer..life is plain poetry
    The most leisured act of all types.
    He renders his life a prose.
    In which, coffee mugs are his beloved heroine

    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

    #image_prompt_LS

    #writer #mirakee #writersnetwork #pod @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    For a writer..life is a passion.
    For a writer..life is a blank page.
    For a writer..life is a universal duty
    For a writer..life is a plain poetry.

    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti

  • anandarupa_chakrabarti 3w

    ©anandarupa_chakrabarti