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  • eclipsed_sun 1d

    Tooooooo my dear Ananya di (ik you don’t like the name but who cares 😁)

    ;__;;; wow. It’s your birthday. Your actual birthday!!!!! You were one of the first people on mirakee that I actually liked, and interacted with, and that makes me smile a lot IDK WHYYYY ANYWAYS 🥲 your memes make me laugh till my stomach hurts, but even better than the memes, is the memer herself ._.

    You’ve been kind to me. Really. Even if you think you are otherwise. You always write beautiful dedication pieces for everyone and say such nice things about me it should be a crime u.u

    And you’re so cool (._.)))) like you make memes , you’re also funny otherwise, you’re kyut, and yeah you’re so cool (..))) teach me your ways, and also how to write Hindi as beautifully as you do 👉🏼👈🏼

    Overall I feel like I’m very much lucky to be your friend Sachi mein :”)))) you always brighten up my day I hope yours is good too ._.

    Happy birthday @tengoku
    We love you, your haters will see me in hell ♥️


    Bg is a failed attempt to replicate your famous and wonderful one liners xd

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    she breathes out poetry
    written sans endings
    and stitches her scars into a shawl
    for the moon to wear, already wrapped up in her musings

  • eclipsed_sun 3w

    There used to live an old man on the corner of the street I lived in. He’d sell tokens from Nashville and dream catchers and blankets that were undone, under a pretense of rustic poetic charm, and our small paper town reserved for him hate and love intertwined. I remember being terribly young, I used to find the eclipse of the sun into the moon scenic, and beautiful, and I'd wear nothing but red, red, and red. And the occasional yellow. I'd find him standing on the bank of the river and watching how the tides would flow right into the mouth of the end, and my town thought him to be bizarre, but to my surprise, I couldn't.
    He'd laugh whenever someone asked him the price of the guitar picks he'd sell, and then he'd wear a ghost of a smile when anyone tried to buy his tattered copy of Peter Pan, and would always check to see if peter still chose wendy in the end before giving it to the man who wanted it. I saw all of this, and I'd continue walking regardless, and I'd skip along the avenue towards the mall, and I'd lookout for a spider whenever I would chance upon a cobweb and I'd laugh when people cried in movies, and I'd laugh, laugh and laugh. And then one day, I went to bed stealing the lights from the city council building, because mine weren't working, and let the horizon bestow a Midas kiss on me again, and extended a palm towards a sky, and I took a polaroid because I wanted to be aesthetic, like the girls who had embroidered kisses and "haunted everyone's what-ifs", and would make dreamcatchers on the cusp of breaking, and would sing, sing and sing, all day long. I ignored the beggar with shuffled feet tied to the ground, and the town troubadour singing happiness is a butterfly with nothing but discordance, and then I thought to myself "well, that should be enough for today" and went to bed.
    And then I saw a dream, that tattooed its shape on me like a shadow with a needle, bare on my skin, and a dream that would haunt all of my what- if's for eons to come. The man on the avenue selling charms stood on a theatre floor with an audience whose eyes were fixated on all but the man, and he beat the floor with his arms like there was no tomorrow then and untied a jet black thread from his blue heart and tied it around his neck for everyone to see. And slowly his damned face convoluted, and morphed, and sinewed, and shrunk into nothingness, and I could see mine in its place. And I screamed, for there was no tomorrow, and then maleficent lept out from the page she was in, and laughed and wept along with the hundred and one blackbirds in the same room. I woke up, and I'd be damned if I was lying, but there, I saw my face, collapsing into a pool of cold sweat, but it wasn't mine. It was his.
    And then I ran out of my little cottage, as far as my legs could take me, and my cheap mascara withered and lingered in the cold storm. the edges of my satin dress were stained with mud, safe to say.
    And I found him on the road with his eyes closed, faced towards the heavens, and the white in his eyes pronounced him dead.
    And I didn't know if I was relieved or if I was sad.

    #endc
    @mirakee @writersnetwork
    #pod
    ______________________________________________
    Lines in “” are from the lyrics of cardigan that didn’t make it in the actual song. I forgot to mention this so sorry (._.))))
    Ashu, ket, Bean, Sha,, Velo, zohii. Thank you. I adore you all so much. Y’all really have been the best ;-; ❤️❤️❤️❤️
    @piyuldwivedi @pink_phosphenes @seyfert @moitreyee @hafeezhma @my_cup_of_poetry @ablaze_writer heya, thank you all for pressing me to write :”) I really really really appreciate it, I adore you all too <3

    To everyone, every single one of you who reads my ishtupid words, thank you from the bottom of my heart. I don’t really think I can express how grateful I really am. But trust me, I really really appreciate it. Thank you again :)

    Thank you to all the people who unfollowed me. I now know who all to stay a mile away from. But just know, I see you, like you see me :)

    Let’s try to make this place more accepting. Everyone says mirakee is a community, but in the same breath, hate on Muslim and Pakistani people and call them prostitues and all simply for being who they are, abuse underage girls and then flip the narrative around, and hate on new users for literally no reason and the list does on. Already ye jagah dark posts ke vajah se bohot depressing hai (that’s fine, tis just a joke. XD) let’s not make it even gloomier.

    Stay safe :”) ❤️
    Happy new year ❤️

    Thank you @writersbay <3

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    Wind cheaters
    jeer schoolgirls with pigtails
    and make fun of satin dresses,
    of primness, of propriety,
    that they'd chance upon when they
    pass by a window sill of a shop in the mall

    Wind cheaters
    cheat on the che(e/r)ry coloured skies
    they chance upon in their dreams
    with lavender flowers and their kisses
    that seemed to have come out
    of nowhere.

    Wind cheaters
    gamble on a Sunday afternoon
    with hollow die made of bone,
    and frown whenever a
    imprinted 7 lands on the interface


    Windcheaters
    look at the night sky with tears in their eyes,
    while they kiss the richcoets on their own arms,
    and wish for a star
    to fall for them too.

    Windcheaters
    ruffle the hair of
    Young newspaper boys
    selling their wares on the left side
    of the avenue
    when they think that nobody was looking

    Windcheaters
    are the paintings of a museum
    that nobody will ever lay their eyes upon
    the ones that show that
    the strings of their blue hearts
    aren't only blue,
    but are all the colours
    that few shall ever see.

    ©eclipsed_sun

  • eclipsed_sun 3w

    Now now, I know the “pOeM” in the Bg is far from good, but this is what happens when writersblock plays tango with you for almost 6 weeks straight. I’ve also forgotten how to wish people because I always forget their birthdays (I REMEMBERED THIS ONE THOUGH I SWEAR)

    but it was also difficult to write this because I mean , how do you describe a person like her, really? I mean seriously. I’ve known her for some time and she is a frigging gem even though she’s always saying otherwise (make of that what you will )

    To be very frank, she’s a source of comfort you know. She feels homely , she’s so incredibly kind and she’s really cheesy in a really nice and pure sort of way. She’s not just a ray of sunshine, SHES ACTUALLY THE ENTIRE SUN.

    And a sun deserves the whole world, doesn’t it? (Pls pls pls kill me I don’t know wtf this is)

    Neha if you’re reading this, then just know , you are one of the kindest people I have ever met. You are all of the afore mentioned, plus you are sincere, you are entertaining (xD) , you always console everyone even if you need a good amount of consoling yourself, and I am honestly so lucky to know you. I love you , and I hope that you remain happier than Calvin at a dinosaur exibhition :”)

    Also if you’re reading this I want you to know you’d better bring back all of your posts NOW or this 🥨🧀🧇🥞🍕🍟🍡🍭🍧🍬🍰🎂🍫🍿 is not for you 👀🙃😊


    Happiest birthday to you @iamsleepy :”)
    You really are the best ❤️


    AND I SWEAR I REMEBERED YOUR BIRTHDAY ASK ANYONE ;O:

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    So there's this lass I know
    everyone calls her "NeHa"
    but I suffer from amnesia
    so I call her a writing pro
    And as her friend, I can tell you,
    the muse behind her posts is chai
    Yep, she's been fooling you
    This is the truth she'll try to deny
    Her words seem like they've ascended
    from the stairway to heaven
    make no mistake: Metaphors are her best friend
    And they are the words that even a drunkard will be able to discern
    I guess she's funny and witty
    and also the epitome of purity
    Yeah, she's magic bundled in flesh
    and a breath of air that is the definition of fresh (kill me)
    a 10001 other adjectives
    can't describe this sweet lil ghost
    nevertheless, she's gonna be my captive
    CAUSE SHE DELETED ALL OF HER POSTS 😊😊😊😊😊

  • eclipsed_sun 10w

    ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙᴏɴᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ꜰɪɴɪꜰᴜɢᴀʟ


    The afternoon was chilly, curling into the fumes still lingering from the fire lit last night. It was the month of August, and the sky, finifugal as ever, held back its tears, for it was intimate with the wrong lover, and was bedecked with a fear of being vulnerable in front of others. Paresh came home and let the scent of jasmine unpack its baggage at his doorstep. The house's clock had stopped working.

    Arpita, his daughter of 11, sat on the floor as her mother braided her hair. As he, a man with oily black hair and eyes for burgeoning dark spots entered, she broke her gaze from the dolls in her hand and said "Hi papa!" with a smile that invited April a little more earnestly.

    He looked at her and smiled wearily.

    "Papa?"
    "Hmm?"
    "I want a few moghra flowers. To wear in my hair. Can I," she quipped quietly,
    "Can I get some?"
    "Of course, why not? Come along."
    She stood up excitedly and exclaimed,
    "THANK YOU, papa!", with fireflies in her eyes that began to swirl around her mind.

    She held out her hand and he took it.

    They went to the nearby flower vendor and bought a set of moghra and he watched her eyes emerge from their future dark circles with a hummingbird's placidity.
    The sky resigned ever so slightly, whilst momentarily flinching. It then saw them and hastily grabbed a pen and paper to scribble down the stories it saw in them, only to sigh even more, in a way which made October look its way.
    Arpita, his sun child, his placidity in the eye of the hurricane. He knew, how he would never be as close to her as she was to her mother, how yin is always, perpetually, attracted to yang. But he could not help how she was his reminder that some things are meant to never end. How she was his blood, his bone, his skin, his home. How she was innocence incarnate and reminded him of his old days of yore and daylight.

    The sun began to dip and they made their way home.

    Arpita continued playing with her dolls ever so eagerly, he made his way towards the table, where his wife sat.

    "Yes, so let us finalize the partnership then, yes?", she said.
    "All right, thank you so much. I will inform her."

    He sat down and looked at her with a steely gaze.

    "So you're doing this.", he said.

    "I have nothing to say to you, Paresh."

    "You're making a huge mistake. Again."

    "We've discussed this. It's a tradition Paresh."

    "It's WRONG, Heena!" he shouted.

    Hollow silence filled the entire hall. Arpita's laughter was the only sound that they could hear, for the first time. I looked down on the floor, as did she.

    "It has been done, Paresh.

    Arpita will be married.

    You cannot do anything."

    The silence resonated throughout once again. Heena went into the room where her daughter sat, to break the news.

    Arpita looked at him.
    He looked away.

    The day of her marriage arrived soon. The rituals passed, went away with an oblivious blur. Soon, the entire family stood outside, an arm's distance away from her and her to-be, ready to step into a car and begin a finifugal life of their own.

    Arpita's eyes, he could see them shift from here to there, attempting to seize the moment and to remember everything forever. She looked down and a tear trickled, traveled, and traversed down, and read the stories her blood and bone etched. She hoped her veil hid everything and looked up once again.
    She hugged her mother and they looked at each other, and their eyes told each other to be brave.
    She came up to me and looked up at his face, one last time.
    One last time she said, demurely.
    "papa."
    she put a chit of paper in his hand and looked down.

    She looked at all of us, one last time, and said
    "Goodbye", and slowly watched autumn leaves accompany her, the lone bride, as she dragged her feet in the earth, dressed in her finery. Her oblivious lover looked at her with a steely gaze. She sat in the car, decorated with flickering lights, and packed baggage on the top.

    He imagined both of us extending our arms to each other, one last time.
    He imagined both of us letting go.

    Her lover started the engine. She decided to steal a quick glance at her old life, all of its bricks, its bones, its blood, and then looked on sadly towards her husband, like a nightingale wishing to reach home to her younglings in the midst of a storm.

    The car sputtered and came to life. It skewered through the tracks of mud and imprinted footprints on it. It disappeared into the black skyline, and the sky remarked that it concomitantly became a song a blackbird sang.

    Heena muttered, "come, let's go inside."

    "Hm."

    As she turned into our house of coffee-stained walls, I opened the chit his daughter left him.

    "Papa,
    Please remember to not save my moghra and my dolls.
    I love you. "

    And at that moment, the sky finally decided to break.

    -mihika
    _______________________________________________
    This was heavily inspired by my school teacher's story:")
    This is the first short story I've written which wasn't for an exam. I hope it isn't too bad:")
    @eurusgrey here's the story:")
    @_rainfrost_ @veloc1ty_ @zohiii 🖤🖤🖤
    @shahsagilbert_ come back soon;-;
    @sangfroid_soul you wanted us to tag you in our stories, so here is me tagging you in my story 🙈 read if you want to :D
    Reposting it again kyunki there were too many mistakes and I was so embarrassed 👁💧👄💧👁
    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod

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  • eclipsed_sun 10w

    Did I leave out anything ?
    😂😭🙈

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    Just to let the jantaa know

    1. Mihika_the_weirdo was me

    2. Guilty_as_charged was me

    3. Hidden_sunshine was me

    4. Stained_glass was me

    5. Nubivagant_ was me

    6. Void was me

    7. _aesthete_ was me

  • eclipsed_sun 10w

    the conifer at the end of the street whispered something to the wind and then took its last breath.

    the town nearby rose to revolution and sang songs, wrote poems, and fingered the white lilies that they grew in their fields.

    by the next dawn, the wind had become convoluted and morphed into a hurricane, and the floor of the town hall had bodies strewn all over with paint splattered on them from the paintings they had created earlier, and with shards of glass bobbing through their flesh. it was also worth mentioning that all of the corpses were found having poems scrunched up in their left hands. further autopsies revealed that they had died of gunshot wounds that were inflicted after they shot each other all night long.

    //and as they saw the lights in front of them flicker, they saw the rain pour and the napalm of the sky, and proceeded to die a thousand times once again//

    the end (?)
    ©eclipsed_sun

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    the
    tale
    of
    the
    blue
    town

  • eclipsed_sun 12w

    "Hello?"

    Felicity, this is to say,
    that I've been trying my best to
    bring you back, and
    this desire to do so
    was born with the advent of
    my failed experiment
    to grow yellow wisteria for a
    grade, since then
    I have been trod over with
    a childish desire to embrace you
    once again, to feel the mist in
    your eyes with you, to dance
    to the songs you dance along to
    on a midsummer night.
    You've almost always been lost
    in my locality, and I must've told
    you a hundred times that a U-turn
    and two right turns is
    all that you need to take, or
    maybe this is something
    that I've told myself.
    It's probably for the best, because
    the painters screwed up,
    and they painted my house blue
    when I asked them to distemper
    it with yellow, or perhaps this is
    something I told myself once again,
    old habits are meant for dying hard.
    The paint is still wet and when you
    try to knock on the door it smears
    your hand a little, or a lot, depends
    on the knocking and sometimes the knocker.

    I first met you in an
    arbitrary backyard during autumn
    and I remember you plucking a safflower
    and planting it in the space
    between my hair and my ear,
    and I let a giggle escape me instead of a sigh,
    and I watched you turn your heel in
    the opposite direction
    and I never saw you face-to-face
    ever again,
    this is all I remember of you
    because I am nothing
    but of letters dipped
    in wine to prevent them from ageing,
    and I do not know why I tell you this.
    Everything aside, I realised that
    to make you mine directions weren't
    enough, and when this hit me
    I let my sorrow gratify
    the hole in my chest
    and went mad
    because I didn't know what to do.

    Days passed, infinities elapsed, suns drowned
    and one moon,
    I ran out of my home to witness the skies
    and found them
    sobbing violently with a heaving chest,
    darker than what i could've ever see in
    my lifetime.
    I let fear push buttons in my head
    that I never knew were present
    and then saw a hurricane in a corner
    pirouette tipsily, turbulently,
    with threads searing through
    its demure chest
    I summoned an icarus
    and felt my heart sink
    as i watched it fall down
    like a stone from the skyline
    and held my hand up demurely
    hoping foolishly
    that it would entwine with it
    As the darkness forced down
    a demure chuckle and a dry laugh
    because in that moment,
    it was the only one who knew
    all of this , it
    was a tapestry
    painted by
    the pain that settled
    in the void of your absence
    in convoluted shades that are
    manipulated on sight
    {that are all the rage these days}
    and my hysteria was but
    a great source of entertainment
    to the heavens; placid and level-headed
    with faces kissed by cherry blossoms

    and I do not know why I tell you this.

    Felicity, in all truthfulness,
    I am on the cusp of
    dangerous sobriety
    and
    everything
    is
    cold.
    Your breath, my breath.
    Your skies, my skies.

    Felicity,
    come swinging through
    these demure gates, I
    plead of you,
    and save me while you
    bring with your divinity
    sun-kissed dawns
    and cherry-coloured light.
    Save me before
    the thousand and one tales
    on jet black nights I etch nimbly
    emerge from my mind
    and engulf me
    with their silhouette.
    When I drown in the
    raging sea,
    and cannot hear my own voice
    over the roaring of the waves,
    run after me madly and
    call out my name like you
    never have before.
    When I crash and crumble
    on my knees
    after the rubble
    from the blue walls I tried
    to destroy on my own
    inflicts upon me injuries deeper
    than I could've ever imagined
    and I lie face down, trapped,
    ready to become the carcass
    I knew I would be,
    save me, Felicity.

    You are the poem
    I fantasise to write about
    and frame on my enclosures of
    my home.
    You are my pain,
    my grief cooling down
    after they've been set
    on fire a thousand times
    all painted in yellow.

    A prayer that I would chant
    without hesitation
    that doesn't need
    an 'amen' for ratification.

    You are why I
    roam the streets
    when the clock strikes 12
    not for a pill or a thousand
    but to think
    to think the musings of a child's mind,
    touching the sky ,
    and kissing a million dreams
    wuthering and hanging by
    the stars.

    To stare back at the heavens
    in its finfigual entirety
    and then puckering my
    mouth into a little O.

    To steal fireflies in
    a glassy-eyed jar
    only to let them out again

    To write, to dream, to hope
    And to stare at the infinites of the world
    without being drenched in wrongdoing,
    And envy,
    And an arbitary feeling
    Of a blackbird's song
    tingling through my spine.

    Felicity, in all truthfulness
    Your hand is the anchor
    to this sinking ship.
    The strings that seep
    through our chests
    are the only thing
    that remotely connect us these days.
    And I hope that someday
    we improvise and
    manipulate these strings
    and turn them into
    pink kites
    we shall chase in the skies,
    together.
    And I hope that someday, Felicity,
    you shall become mine.








    With this, I shall leave.





    And with this,
    shall you leave?

    ©eclipsed_sun

    ______________________________
    #tinsc (?) #felicityc #picturec
    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod
    This is really bad ( ・ั﹏・ั)
    But you all will not let me delete this T_T

    THE WORLD TURNED UPSIDE DOWN TODAY. THANK YOU @writersnetwork :")

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  • eclipsed_sun 13w

    A square peg seemingly present at a gathering

    you, the blackbird
    sing a song about six pence
    with lines detailing about
    what katydid and katydidn't
    whilst perched on
    town cables hitherto abandoned.

    you, the syncopated painting,
    pluck imaginary wildlflowers
    when you play charades,
    and destiny and truth
    hurriedly entwine then,
    like strokes of blue
    and mauve from two opposite corners
    of the frame
    from a single canvas.

    you, a discordant song,
    trip and traverse through
    thorn-stained boundaries
    in frequencies dubious
    like cerulean muses looking at
    a painting arisen from
    the suns they watched when they dipped
    down perpetually, or so it seemed.

    you, a forced drunkard,
    stagger through the earth's
    browns exuding boredom
    believing that you
    are a nomad pilfering the lanes
    of the clouds,
    like the dew drop rendering you aghast
    running towards the mist of your window pane

    you, a harp's string,
    sing a song of six-pence
    that men dressed in grey wrote,
    you, an amnesiac tailor
    having a tete-a-tete with
    discontolation and the author
    of cindrella, {an antoynm of a fairy-tale}
    stich your robes from paper strings
    before the clock rolls over to
    the 12th hour, the hour when
    you can finally abandon your
    glassy footwear
    and run away from castles
    and grandness amongst other things.

    you, a cerulean muse,
    curtsey and kiss
    death's hand and pirouttte
    ever so lightly on your feet
    as you try not to fumble
    and bump into the corners
    of this room, as you
    feel the gathering's gaze
    on you, as you feel the blackbirds'
    contemplate on what
    katydid and katydidn't.

    you, a monolith,
    feel your fire
    crumble and
    expect someone else to
    scatter the ashes,
    because now

    you, a lifeless statue defaced,
    finally realise that your story
    is being crossed out in red,
    and is being
    written by someone else instead.

    ~mihika •| of thespian art and amnesia.

    ©eclipsed_sun

  • eclipsed_sun 15w

    • you can never forget the storm that occurred in summer •

    there's a volatile ember scorching my backyard in the same spot where you first recited me a poem , 3 moons ago and it has been raging ever since, with a ferocity akin to the cold gale of air encompassing the misty-eyed sky on the verge of tears.

    i know not when first it arrived, but i suspect that it made it's presence when the moon first turned blood red. and now i stand amidst a few broken shards of a bottle of scotch, tipsy, turbulent, tinted verses, burgeoning conifers in a forgettable corner infused with disconsolation, when i suddenly notice a blackbird's song serenading the heavens and lo, i now see hundreds of photographs beginning to spill out of the pyre, with a faded nameless yellow shade on the edges of each and every frame, a crestfallen, inconceivable characteristic that photographs can have that i was blissfully unaware of.
    and now, exactly like a pack of wolves pounding on painfully requisite flesh, exactly like a madman sifting through garbage looking for gold tipsily i sift through these burning photographs in a mad-like trance, and i watch with disjointed eyes facing my mouth, puckered into a slight O as everything i touch fades into discoloured ash and i find nothing but weeds rising out of the carcass birthed from the roses shedding it's skin in the fire, slipping through my hands ever so slightly.

    I stare at my burnt hands and sigh
    and then look up at the sky
    , who looks back longingly, and i cry,
    , and like this unprecedented yet predictable half- rhyme, i ask the heavens, "does it ever go away?", and it looks both ways to make sure that the stars aren't watching and whispers, choking down a sob, "you'll never be the same". i am a prayer an atheist mutters, recalled only during exponentially dire and discoloured times, whose spaces in between the lines is filled with Goph's scribblings when he realised all is futile. oh lord, i could've sworn they would've found the sunken ship whose remains went missing in the summer of '69 in the napalm of my eyes that day. no wonder you wrote like you were writing like you were running out of time, you were, it was a matter of moments before thoughts, emotions, flowers, petrichor, all this would equate numbness, lackluster, facades, lies and all that is inaminate that poets use as tarnished, and terribly bored muses- figurines attached to paper strings hiding in their closets wondering how their selfish verse-maker would manupilate them today, which is why the silhouette of the old me who often laid on a stone for a bed and the bathroom floor at other times didnt petrify you when you found it lying on the winter deck, which is why you find the metal in a shackle sweet, which is why you wrote my name on books in grey, which is why when you wrote verses you would stop when you reached the middle and dissolve into thought.

    i mistook it to be love.

    and now, i am but a blurred orb feeling the symphony of a concerto fading from high to low. i am standing and staring still, bleakly at the white light filled abyss ahead of me, staring at the sky whilst it recoils in cries once again, i shift my haze away then. i am a hopenote morphing as a sucide note, a ticking time bomb, that sort. i am a maze lit up by fading christmas lights you forget to take down.

    i am now but my own undoing.

    there's an ember burning in my heart in my backyard on the same spot you first recited me a poem and i watch it laugh at me, and that marked the end of summer as i knew it, the end of the ages of wearing your heart on a checkered sleeve, the end of jazzy skies and warm nights, the end of swirling around fields dripping with cream-coloured daffodils all around, the end of times when sunsets would end with the emergence of mist-free mornings. my l{over}, the so-called rooted idea of us has transitioned from a flowerbed of jaded lilies, to the silence filling the air, for everyone to hear, and as these cherry blossoms swirl and fall down on my face ever so gently, i finally begin to feel how withered they really are.

    //the best part about the incoming rains is nobody can understand if the heavens are crying, or if you are//
    -mjk

    ©_aesthete_

    __________________________________________
    either read it completely, or skip it completely :)
    @iamsleepy @shashagilbert_ @veloc1ty_ @zohiii i love you guys. you all are probably the only reasons i am still writing here.
    @_aradhya @eurusgrey @_rainfrost_ @_hessa_ same applies for yall. come online soon
    not reading anyone right now. hope it doesnt bother you, because it shouldnt :")
    @writersbay #emberc #octobermusings *sighs*
    @mirakee @writersnetwork #pod

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    .

  • eclipsed_sun 20w

    ~juliet's scribbling~

    we are yin and yang stolen from the sky and thrown into a hurricane filled with juxtapositions among other things, that has life's signature all over it.
    we are standing just around the riverbed, letting the autumn strike us, with arms wide knowing that winter is waiting and coming. but we don't care, and that's a problem you and me have had for too long- we cared too much sometimes and we cared too little at other times, and as a result this love was born. they could've called us poetic but the only poetry we could ever suffice to be would be an eulogy or two, with wildflowers resting on their chests, which is why we cant hide ourselves in metaphors deeper than the abyss that is calling our name.

    mama called me an incarnation of the heavens, but little did she know that the heavens were my future, that arrived a little earlier.
    papa called me a fairy, but little did he know that I wouldn't become one, but rather I would be rescued from this hurricane by one, and that was the closest id ever be to becoming a fairy.

    they told us
    "Every part of you is just enough of all the pains and autumns, let springs come your path"
    but what if we told you that the paths they were talking about were incomplete without each other, that the only paths that were laid in front of us were broken, and intersecting into two, one for each,
    that merged into a cricle?

    we're fading into the afterlife with a quietus that doesnt suit us, but to sacrifice is often to free oneself. but on the plus side, we have now become the stars that we wished to hold onto as children, amongst a plethora of times we disappointed our past selves. free fall feels Like freedom they say, and with you in my sight, that begins to make sense to me in this confusing, chaotic and contradictory life that manupilated me into feeling bittersweet as I began to recite a farewell to it.

    the moon will now become an omnipotent, permanent listener to the letters we penned to each other.
    we will count the stars together and embed their illuminance deep within our scars.
    we will embrace death like an old friend,
    and hold roses for each other while we do it.
    //we will become the skies we gape and romanticised at//

    #smk_we_ch
    lines in quotation marks are by @say_me_krish
    this sucks. because it was rushed. and I'm very sorry for that. I have exams. ill read everyone soon :)
    till then, tc 🖤

    So
    This piece baisically talks about 2 ppl that love each other so deeply and can’t be together because of opposition from parents/community etc, which is why they commit sucicide, as they would rather die than not be together, sort of Akin to Romeo and Juliet, hence the title. Don’t know why wn chose to put a dark piece like this in popular section but anyways xD thank you so much @writersnetwork :) it’s extremely kind of you :)

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    And yes, the world opposed us,
    and yes,
    That was serendipity’s
    Way of speaking to
    Me and you
    ©_aesthete_