The Writer shows What his heart told his mind To photocopy through his ink From his pen onto the paper
The Writer paints beautiful murals In complex-simple letters Mixed with Elysian tunes Appealing only to the mind's eye
The Writer mirrors the world Through the path of his feelings Showing how wholesome the Universe can be In dialectic alphabets
The Writer through an odyssey A quest, to visit the depths of his heart A voyage into the interior of his mind An epic adventure for thirst of knowledge
The Writer spells his thoughts By putting himself in question He's the Judge, Jury and the Convicted All in one court called life
The Writer writes With worthy worship Wis wisdom writ with Wonderful words
The Writer becomes an actor Reprising different roles On the stage of his mind Interpreted with his ink
The Writer becomes one Who has died a thousand deaths Cosmogyral - transcending centuries Regaining eunoia at every rebirth
The Writer is a person Who recognizes beauty in the common place Who sees the extraordinary in the abnormal Who experiences glory in the ordinary
The Writer is one Who builds murals of existing memories Mixed with non-fictional fantasies Embellished in fictional realities
Whilst the pen glides on paper
The Writer Becomes a lover Coming into consonance with words Pouring his heart out in symphonic rhythms
The Writer Is a Seer Finding solace in his subconscious Engrafting inescape letters in his conscious
Writing is orphic cum ethereal; mysterious, entrancing, beyond ordinary understanding It's like blood to the body Air to the lungs Calcium to the bones. It's like music to the ears And food to the soul. It's the sun to the morning Moon to the night And stars to the sky. Writing is one guide to find our paths through this labyrinth called life Writing is a machine that teleports our souls through various tunnels in this mundane edifice Caressing our hearts and minds into celestial ceremonies. Writing is pigment to the skin Writing is home Writing is a sedate for nervous hearts Writing is a safe haven that shuts away Everything ephemeral locking our minds into one racking ball of knowledge The mind is the pen Our hearts; the ink
The Writer, Enjoys hypothetical conversations in his head Caressing his youniverse In meaningful momentums
The Writer writes Using the pen of God. Upon completing a poem, God breathes into his meraki
Tributes to @mirakee She provides the overwhelming urge to disentwine from the world Blessing us with the freedom to express our feelings, In ambivalent words.
We experience "ukiyo" when we pen our hearts on paper Writing is a journey into ourselves One that changes our hearts, minds and demeanour. Mirakee is an opportunity to embrace epiphany the moment we complete a poem.
Just like music feeds the soul, Writing is a place where we are at our most authentic self - Our querencia. ______________________________________________________ This is what writing means to me and more....
Finally a Lvl 6 writer.... Phew ______________________________________________________
Hats off to those wonderful people that made my stay here comfy and filled with warmth
Her skin is the color of sunset, her half smile is capable of nuancing all the colors of nature, I could not hold her gaze without being blinded by so much beauty.
She surprises the dawn every morning; the roses wish her, the lilies in the forest sing songs to her. She is the muse of the nightingale, with her flashes of light she reaches the darkest corners of my existence.
In her, I can see as if all the suns in the cosmos glow within her eyes, all those galaxies that only her verses can describe.
She is made of cosmic dust, colored nebulae flutter in space, infinity is adorned with beautiful showers of stars and I so silly I went out with an umbrella.
Lost in dark Don't know where to go Not a single hope's spark Nothing to say, nothing to show Standing alone in dark yet so comforting My body's hating but my soul's loving Lonliness they defined, darkness they say is on hunt Solitude I reply with the beauty of light burnt Deeper the thoughts, deeper the sink Still at a place looking around Legs still, eyes wont blink Waiting for darkness to surround
Lost in dark Don't know where to go Not a single hope's spark Nothing to say, nothing to show Looking ahead but only darkness to see Sad to think but happy to be Sinistrous they said, horrifying they described Pulchritudinous I said, soothing I replied Darker the darkness, brighter the shine Flesh and bones say its harmful but soul say its divine
Lost in dark Don't know where to go Not a single hope's spark But one thing to say and one to show I wandered leaving those negetive thoughts and weight behind Dark for you, not for me As I am not lost in life but in thoughts of my own world in my own mind. @_aradhya@_maahi#poetry#thoughts
On days, when I breathe hope, I convey millions of ships, Raising the yellow sail, Encraved with the songs you loved, But, I didn't hear back you harmonica, I guess, none of them made to your shore.
On days, when I breathe longingness, I send sea fog of January, In the shape of me, Filled with all the warmth for you, But, all I heard is thunder crying, I guess, Cassia want to hold you a little longer.
On days, when I breathe turmoil. I send all the sea shells, Carving map on the waves, leading to me, I guess, you have lost yours.
you are the sole witness of my tears it's only you who knows all my fears I never had a shoulder to cry on you are the only partner of this soul forlorn I never feel bored talking to you for hours you have been my vivid listener for years I can conceal my misery from the world but looking at you my grieving eyes surrender I can see my scars in you crystal clear you are my honest friend in this sphere When I smile at you, you smile at me making my heart and soul full of glee When tears roll down from my eyes you accompany me as a blessing in disguise I never feel hesitant to share my triumphs you always have an ear to lessen my burdens Whenever I feel low and disheartened with life you fill in me the confidence to always strive My favourite pastime is drawing smileys on you you never erase them as a friend so true I tried to break you at times in furious mood I feel sorry, oh my friend for being so rude People say that the world is like a mirror but, infact the world is a mere spectator.
Like a bird who has no nest, I meandered. I glid from the blurry mountains to the abiding oceans. I was a nomad with no shelter, but enough ink to breathe through poems.
Then one fine day when the world was lighting candles, I met a fairy who appeared from the woods behind the tree, where I wrote all my poems. The fairy in her white gown, white like the bird of peace. The fairy with velvety wings, wings that promised me a sky to fly.
With a smile brighter than the stars, She told me I should get a shelter, She told me Love could be my home. She told me Life would be beautiful. I followed her, with eyes full of hope and a heart filled with glee. I followed her to a palace, a palace all bright and ivory. A palace so divine on the outside that even heaven seemed to be envious. I was happy, I felt blessed, for once I had not a shelter but a home. A home so divine.
I went on the inside, and it looked nothing like I thought it'd. I looked around, and it was all dark and gloomy, There was a smell of grief in the air. It had caskets lying all around, Caskets, those had carvings over them Carvings, which labeled as "peace" , "dreams", "hope" and many more. I turned towards the fairy, "Why is it is so demising from the inside? While the exterior is so divine? " I asked.
The fairy laughed aloud her eyes, they were all red abruptly, blood dripped from her lips as she yelled "My son, you are no more a nomad now.. You trapped, You are trapped in what you thought to be home. For it isn't home, but a cage A cage, they call love."
And It's been years. Years, ever since I am subjugated within the castle of lies, the tomb of deception, the paradox, called love. And I cannot breathe, not anymore for I have no ink. Now, I only write poetry, whenever I bleed.
Sun sinks behind the white walls and the white Bestows his moonlight gift on mirrored halls. Every day the mansion grows with delight; And wants to kiss the blue heavenly falls. I never lie because in Hell I breathe, Forlorn and adrift without that Heaven. Around that snowy bloom, the blood clots wreathe The tales which have some Fuhrer and Lenin. Waters from the mansion touch our homes too, Flowing with disgust but they quench our thirst. I wonder those shiny walls feed a few Even if this pomp is a transient crust. For once, I wish for wings to cross slum hum For once, I shall taste heaven’s heartless rum.