Self acceptance is the key to every fear that stands inside. Once you understand what it is and try to process how to combat your fear against it, it becomes powerless before you. Loss is my fear, but I accept it as a frequent visitor that comes and goes and accordingly I have grown out of it, making myself better everyday to deal with it, with life. So battle with the demons inside you, your insecurities are your demons that never let you bloom fully. Accept everything the way it is so it will be better for you to deal with the external cataclysms that won't deprave you internally. Make your fear smaller by growing with full knowledge and understanding of your own self and the world around you.
Unlit demesne with abstruse surroundings, I feel like I’m eternally lost here. Walking with droopy shoulders and a long tiring mass of flesh My debilitated eyes fall upon you. You are sitting with your back resting on the scabrous trunk, “ah it sure is hurting your back,” that’s what I first mused looking at your morbose body. You seem to have reconciled with the pain to be your home. Acceptance, that what seems to you as welcoming as the last kindled hope of survival. I drew myself near to you to have a glance of this castaway face; The moment I glanced at you, my heart oozed a stream of intent- Vehement in fervour of desiring you. In those chapped lips and flaked skin, The dolesome eyes invited a sense of belongingness. I leaned forward to run my fingers across your athirst hair, And looked into those distraught eyes, Kissed gently on your parched brow. Inquisitive to know what leads you to here, I asked, “Have you lost your way? And why do I see you here?” You replied, ”the dawn has not yet cracked to welcome the new world of hope.” “Your thread is lost, but I have a spun”– It escaped my lips like the caged dove that was Imprisoned for ages and wanted to make home the castle of air. You looked up at my quiescent eyes with a tacit pain that is Shrouded over the catastrophe which dismayed you for years, Castrated you of the thought of being welcomed and nurtured by any benevolent soul, Made you impotent of your own understanding of self, Amputated the faith that love can bring back what all you need To germinate into the wholesomeness of life.
My plumes have been plucked With easy cruelty that costs cheaper than the weighing sober human feelings That one finds hard to brew in a heart for long; The mind gets distracted by the ravenous temptations And it seeks to murder the innocence for the experience, That is how souls like us are frauded by another and Loiter in the void reigned by numbness and tormenting silence. In a whole where remnants of my corpses of different episodes I see are feeding the mites of Time, And reeking of musty meekness ravished by deception and guilt, Could nowhere lead me except to a cavity where I want no human And a world devoid of love.
But why then I see the old buried love has won the heart of Osiris And arrayed your spirit to make my soul its home again?
Does it want to return?
Will I be able to give refuge to this stooge and not send it back to the Golgotha again?
P.S.- it's a metaphorical rendition of my first rendezvous with my beloved. The day was 13/01/2019 and since then there has been no looking back. Thank you @ari7ra for everything that help made me who I am today. I love you to infinity and beyond.
Hola Mirakeeans! I hope you all are safe and fine. I apologize for my late post.
This composition is basically a reverie, and as y'all know, a dream doesn't have any definite directions. You may also visualize the oddest combinations in your dreams. From a long time I was proposing to write something on my grandfather, for whom words won't suffice to express how I feel for him. Few days back was his death anniversary when I actually quilled this poem, but failed to post it. He was the only one among the world full of people who agnized the writer in me when I was only three or four.
Therefore, this is an ode to my grandfather in the best way that could be possible where I kept my two best writers in one frame- William Wordsworth and my grandfather. I wish to have this kind of dream everyday though
*'Lyrical Ballads' is the collection of poems of Samuel Taylor Coleridge and William Wordsworth, and has been the landmark anthology till this day and it marked the beginning of English Romantic Movement in literarure.*
Also, it's Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan' that inspires this particular rendition.
P.S.: My favourite writers, I wanted to make the comeback with my post, and now I will one by one go through your posts to delight my senses.
Do I stand grey at twenty five? Who am I? An entangled soul imbued with simplicity. I touched the brink with an eye, Devoured loss, Throttled by dejection, Gagged by fear, Serviled to guilt, Misery quelled me to befriend loneliness.
Albeit unlit caverns made my life their mistress, Oracular forces kept me upstanding in the abode of distress. Now worn-out that I am, To school myself with hope and sweet dreams;
I say perspective is nature's whore, The bride of transience that crowns itself in each mind, Can make all-embracing acerbity kiss with gentleness one's sentience. The Good Samaritan lit no candle, Instead I was hammered into the pitiless walls with a crandall.
Low ebb questioned me — "Why open-minded perspectives, And deferential to human sentiments? Why value a mortal's worth?" "Wisdom is perilous", quoted I; What if I put the world at no mercy From my cunning juxtaposition of self-pity and collective hatred for all?
The raging fire topsy-turvies the world in my doleful eyes, Succeeded by rain benevolent to my screeching cries. I gradually succumb to enervate, my vision fades, And I renounce the masticated self To repose on Nature's lap, Beseech the Mother to sing me a mellifluous lullaby And I flake out with her gentle strokes on my shriveled hair.
Then come these morns, When I wake up to find Raindrop impressions of a Vulture on ashes. I look up at the azure heavens That clad me with invincibility, And I become sure-footed to pace the path, Prepared to face the world again.
Waking up to a masquerade ball I found gleaming masked visages frolic and jangle, Sombre masks cast dismal countenance with temple bowed low; I turned my head around feasting my senses, Overjoyed with the different fashions and fancies of expressive masks, Umpteen in numbers I muddled to choose the right one for me 'Cause masks would mean to suit your temper or colour of the core. I heard a muffled voice suppressed low coming from behind Turned back to see a stooping effigy trying to kill another. The fizzog sent chills down my spine that hailed the homicider, "Ah, that's a happy mask", exclaimed the terrified me! Pestilence driven, is he? I looked around to find that pestilence stricken the ball is; I scavenged for the happy masks, or what if the pure souls? The search took a score and a five And here I stand with a handful of masks only to condole. The masquerade derides the sanctity of hearts, the temper reigning minds, With imposters and beguiled dupes, The masquerade coverts the naked souls; The lesson I learnt is to smirk upon the whole So with masks till my death knell I became one from the folk; For it doesn't matter of what colour the mask is As it celebrates the heart's baroque And becomes its cloak.
She has hues on her, Her painting on me, I am a canvas; The scintillated eyes dim the effulgence of diamonds, The eyebrows are like the arc streamed bushes, The nose stands with grandeur, sharp but dainty, The two petals of rose coaxed to pose her cupid lips; The rubicund cheeks invite a lover's kiss, Her portrait captures the rainbow through her coyish smile. This bewitching mistress has the place of Aphrodite In the heart of the portrayer Whose sulking love found no sceptre and a crown, The one-sided leman to whom his fate frowned. The lovelorn child of mercy has me in his room To behold the poise of eternal youth his darling reflects, For perpetuity is where I belong While she to Mortality will genuflect. I have her summer's grace to celebrate in eternity, While her bleak winter will invite Time's will never yielding to continuity.
On my days of both rise and fall, I invoke my father’s effigy in my head. He brings with himself my cognition to establish him as an influencer who feeds my maturation as a human being in the true sense of the term.
Often the coral sky invites me and I like to sit down by the window, look outside with an intent to behold the sapient star for filling my bosom with its affection and when its gilded rays kiss my face with warm exuberant orange light, my senses are drawn towards remembering my father. This association of my father with this unruffled sheen picture of the setting Sun calls for because he is the one who made me realize so early the beauty and mystery of life in itself.
Whenever I reminisce the early summers of life, the memories that bloom are warm and rosy because in the cosiness and tenderness of love, amidst those encircling waves of care, protection and the responsibility undertaken for the best nurturing of my soul and wellness, I grew up. I remember how I was being taught the nuances to breathe life and take it in as one’s own, so much so that it is impossible to run from it amidst the most suffocating hours and instead, embrace it with that calm sigh.
Often said that childhood is labelled as days of innocence, therefore, lamb as I remained, those times never made me hear the still sad song of humanity.
The clock ticked and the seasons passed by with a cascading effect only to make me realize some day that I am an adult now, contending battles that life has to offer. With his wisdom as the halo and lessons trapped in his wings, my father unravelled to me the enigma of life. I came to personify Life as a conjurer who has tricks to perform every day, with a sheer zeal of sagacity. My godfather under whose canopy I breathed life for so many years imparted the potent to me to take up maneuvers when life grins a cruel sneer.
My father has inbred to envision life, he has been a soul of strength for me and has been the seed of making me a bundle of something. He has weaved this beautiful tapestry that depicts each scene of my life, with or without him, but always carrying his feel in my being wherever I have showered my presence. When people say that I follow his footsteps, it makes me worship him with more ardent consecration.
It beckons a platitude for upholding my father as the best Dad in this harmonious whole, but it won’t have the same undertone when I say for such a life that has been bestowed on me, my fate and the colour of person that I am, nobody else would have been more proper than my father to hold my hand and take a walk alongside me to show the journey of life that awaits.
The widowed line can, therefore, be the summation of his glorification as the most invincible valiant hero of my life who taught me that men are also the beautiful creations of God, the one who taught me that folly doesn’t lie in genders but in minds.
Bewildering winds Brought nuances Gradual shift of Onerous ways From rigourous days to quiet place When standstill got its prevalence Started with bleak whispers, now a cacophony Though it came with profound message, To be still and Untouched by rush is okay All the haste vanished, bringing placid state Plethora of musings came down in poetries True colours of people finally were vivid Got to see their friendly incompetence How observations of self is true salvation Being reclusive is not a forbidden credence By mid year i saw love is complacent Satire of devils, this year taught some lessons Blithe, aloof usual me isn't so rare And how cherished benevolence could be Catharsis from depression can be achieved Gratitude for apparent realism i so dearly cherish
October rain, a morning lullaby In front of a piece of art, I fantasize about your shoulders, about the country where life begins and the smell of fornication, broken by waves of memory, blue as a fresh bite, October morning like white night.
October rain, winter is coming, questions fall from the sky. Who will now recognize your footprints in the snow? Boredom is choking crumpled paper, as I fade in your pictures Good actors feel other's pain, and bad ones even their own. The clown must go on.
October rain, a poetry train. I need a dream two thousand years old, i need a years without fears. Like a finished book, i fold. Artists have a good imagination, but a distorted reality, I was always so poetic in the morning, maybe because i just trying to fall asleep. October rain, a morning grip.
October rain, endless gray light, what i see is how i feel, and i feel ink. I leave a mark, a mark that does not fade with time, a mark by which you remember me, while you forget me. October rain, endless gray light. How to shut up? Write.
One, then the other, then more and more piece by piece, I leave myself in the ghost town. And I'm going down, cold, like in the ashes a log.
Piece of me is still out there, somewhere in a bunch of crumpled smiles and make-up looks. There, where the morning dresses in purple the roofs. There, where are no more amateurs with rented costumes and cheap roles. There, where I stopped dreaming about spoiled doll's. And I'm lying cold, like in the ashes a log.
One piece of me is still confused somewhere by your growing up and obligations. Where the world fell asleep before us, and where, at least for an hour, we had our first dream together. And one piece stayed where my songs made sense, and my dead hands wrote black letters on your white body. And now I'm lying cold, like in the ashes a log.
Piece by piece, by piece, I leave to your memories All I have to do is see you tomorrow, and move your mind, the way I know. And all I have to do is bite your lip for some new year while burning balloons fly over us. And all I have to do is leave piece by piece in the fog and i'm lying cold, like in the ashes a log.
The universe has done its thing, i found you... Some just happen, somehow the paths cross, some people always meet in the end. Wherever they come from Wherever their ancestors made their home, someone writes it from above, that poetry of destiny, those funny and weird names that we carry with us, until we finally meet. Then it doesn't matter anymore, then the names stop, and the passion begins ...
Like a shooting star that lights up the sky, so it disappears forever into darkness, - Where have you been all my dream? Your eyes, like ripe grapes they fall on me, and i tasted the wine.
And without wonder your gaze followed, stopping in me the words that came suddenly, inclined, without waking, with a slight pallor. My pride fails to overcome.
- Let me look at you a little longer.
With deep trembling your eye looks at me, I don't remember - did I say anything that hour? Some word, so worn out, like a lie. I don't remember - maybe I cried without a voice.
- Welcome to my world, Frida Kahlo.
And darkness falls upon my peace, the carousel of life turns, like a child's toy. Do you really exist? I've been waiting for you my whole life. You stand cold, and you are silent, as at the end of the story.
- Fragments of happiness, the only thing I can give. I can write you a song, or verse, but i can't describe that constellations in your eyes.
There will be a street on the edge of town, deprived of your footsteps. I consume chewed words, and the monologue flows easily. I look you in the eyes, and the thought escapes, like a mine from a cannon; "Is there a woman in the world they loved so much?" You may not understand, the universe has done its thing, i love you...
It was raining, Gloria, the morning carried the smell of the sea, and in an unknown language I tried to write shapes of your hair while you asleep. And you, never mine, while you asleep you shine.
It was a sad day, Gloria, and your eyes laughed at me. The words came from those depths, and what the meaning of life is if I don't drown in them? And you, never mine, while you asleep you shine.
I dreamed of a fog, Gloria, one ordinary morning, in your student room, you held out hands to me shyly, and I think I realized then where the Danube kisses sky. And you, never mine, while you asleep you shine.
Life is so short, Gloria, to pass on the screen. Here or anywhere in the world in Madrid or Mumbai, in Damascus or Rome, wherever your finger would stand as the globe rotates. And while the pictures change on canvas, beam projector lights creates shadows on the wall, like craters on the moon, and go into oblivion disease money fake laughter promises plans notes sadness troubles simpletons memories losses peoples infections risks and compassions and fear of death, here or anywhere in the world wherever your finger would stand, Gloria, as the globe rotates.
Slow music Curtain goes down I'm going down Darkness going down Silence going down Just your heartbeats And you, forever mine, while you asleep you shine...
Written by artistano1 photo screenshoot from the movie "Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind"
Tonight, when my last verses, smell like gray fairy tales, under your window, don't wake up in vain. I know you won't be happy in this world of money, where heads fall and history fades. At least try not to be prey in all this, be a hunter. I've certainly been crazy for a long time. My loneliness is a ship sailing into the abyss. In me is the wind ran away from the moon and the barks of stray dogs. There are letters in me, that instead of a heart, something beats.
Tonight, when my last words ring in your ears, like empty stories, don't wake up in vain. There is no us anymore, it's a pattern. All that's left is the same smile, like one scar on two faces. You and me- like a wind and the plain. The night is in me, like a whisper in the grave, out of me comes the banging of nonsense, that instead of a heart, something beats.
You still keep a secret, and hide the gleam in your eyes, when you meet me again in the antique shop of all those years I gave you, and which you gave me. Maybe those distances will eat us, we may become eternal. Shine tonight, like a meteor rain, that instead of a heart, something beats.
Tonight, when my lies hit your memories loudly, like a lighting strike, don't wake up in vain. I haven't had the notes to buy you again, Only my conscience is still playing in me, like when the army marches, that instead of a heart, something beats.
Tonight, when you see me in those shadows on the wall, don't wake up in vain, you will bring back memories, you will bring chaos to your head. you will bring back everything you forgot. So sleep, but stop before you fall asleep, leave the key in the lock.