A lost dandelion . Insta : @alluringfeuillemort

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  • iamjass 7h

    Finally I'm home.
    I missed ya @mirakee ♥️

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    Death wears hues
    so do the grim reapers
    Orange and pale yellow when a leaf falls
    Ultramarine, seeing a ship sinking
    Red at the borders or perhaps on arinas
    Summer Rose, on mature deaths
    Grey on pre-mature ones
    Green sheet, over the dead trees
    And black on contamination

    I appear to be a poet
    Death loathes me
    I dream of eternity, more and more
    I breathe a bless of words
    and wake up in the arms of promises
    to come back over and again
    For this soil, this rain, this whiff
    those stars and maybe for a wish
    I am supposed to give a shape to
    I want to come back
    to love, to live and to die to be born, again

    Love dies, so does life and promise

    Words frown
    I lack faith on undying love
    I would argue with a verse but love dies
    On a fine evening, beside a glass of wine
    at the murkier nights and unwanted dawns
    Love dies on the floor, beside the window sill
    and somewhere afar

    Sometimes love has flesh
    We call beloved, humans, some days
    A person before you, dies
    the anatomy is a container
    of flesh, dead butterflies, paused blood
    heart with dead whims, brain with hot blood
    The person won't speak again
    The person, someone's love
    In someone's verse, she will be born

    Sometimes love has a home
    It appears to be a Heart
    Humans burn it, someday
    They break it, stab it, make it bleed hard
    So the love dies
    And in the verses of deep blue night,
    the buried love breathes, calmly

    Some grim reapers are white
    so are some deaths
    They are good adults
    They draw a paradise, a reincarnation
    They nurture the oblivious desires
    And so the refugees build a home up
    Motels grow up into a home
    Flesh learns to love
    Woods become paper
    Eyes learn to daydream
    Love breathes again
    Near, afar, somewhere, as far as we can see

    Rather I would tell the verses
    I would sing them the syllables of love
    that reincarnates, over and again
    In the arms of promises
    In the arms of sniffing petrichor
    In the arms of satisfaction
    after finishing a gem like book
    In the arms of dawn, orange autumns
    and with the flow of sakura blossoms
    In the name of spring and stars
    warm sweaters, old photographs
    arm chair, old wines and lavender
    In the arms of Friendship

    And in the name of Love



  • iamjass 1d

    Try not to blame me, if I don't write tomorrow.

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    1765 days ago :

    To point the exact place out, I'm unable. I apologise. But certainly it is inside the ribcage, left shifted. Your fingers might be searching for the place onto your skin or perhaps mine. You will feel the warmth of flesh and running blood. For me, it is warm too, a little less.

    1544 days ago :

    This warm is yellow at twilight. This warm is cold during November rains. This warm is grey when I am home. This warm used to be me. When I was Me. And myself was I.
    Well the place, it's somewhere at the left side, inside my ribcage. Something is little bit noisy there.

    1289 days ago :

    A sound. One, two, three and then seventy two.
    Again one, two, three, four and seventy two.
    Like this. Two minutes. Three minutes.
    Fifteen. Twenty minutes. Forty. An hour.
    Five hours. Seventeen hours.
    A day. Days. Weeks. Some more weeks.
    A month. Season.

    975 days ago :

    The river which people call Time, flows. She goes on, walking, running and dreaming to meet her ocean. Perhaps Oblivion.

    672 days ago :

    And so my left-side place remains noisy. Day and night. With stars and crescent. Dandelions and fallen leaves. And everything that move and also don't.

    209 days ago :

    but somewhere, perhaps bit by bit, slowly the remenats, pieces are being frozen, stone-like. Someday it would be as a whole. The noise would be there but the warmth. An icy garden would it be perhaps where even the wildflowers won't even visit. Cobwebs would be the woollen cloths for regrets. And I, I would be humming dead letters to Oblivion.
    A place where words would no longer be peeping through. A place too cold for poetry. Piled up ink blots. And edges of every broken nib, sharp and fragile.

    Today :

    A place like this has become, the left side of my ribcage. Grey and mundane. Cold and cursed. A place, the words have abandoned, the dandelions have forgotten, the rain has forsaken. A place. Just a place.

    So then, I hum the dead letters and let my nib sleep, for a long time. A very long time.


  • iamjass 4d

    Seeing the stars, the empath smiles
    calmly, alone, a little more heartbreakingly


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    She sets apart the melancholic petals
    from the flowers she comes across
    and adorns her blue graveyard
    deep inside her ribcage

    / floral graveyard /


  • iamjass 1w


    We all have our own stories and we all want to occupy the main seat there. Some stories walk towards horizon, go afar from you. Some remain being a bystander. Some absorb bitterness and set themselves free whenever we narrate them. Sometimes we don’t tell a story but the story itself does tell about us. They stand beside the time, watch a show, breathe, sigh and lastly, smile. Looking up at the sky and then at us, they smile.

    I live in a town, mundane. And here, the colour of euphoria is grey. We breathe particles of carbon. we chase the feeling of pleasing a stranger and don’t wave hands at an old pal. Here, the alcohol tastes better, mixed with tears of agony that nobody wants to listen to. We all have our own stories.

    I live in a town, disdained. Here, stories are born at night and they die in the mornings. Again, they reincarnate at gloomy nighttime, sited by the Citylights. The citylights see the stories being born, dead. The stories have their stories of birth and death, peace and piece that the citylights narrate.

    Hannah lives at sidewalk, under the shade of a supermarket, with her mother. It had always been hard for her to raise a daughter, alone. Hannah sees the starry sky, sometimes the milky way with her widely opened eyes. She dreams. The tears of her mother caress those dreams. They are afraid of being left behind. But again she dreams, she wanders. On cloudy nights she sees the citylights instead of stars. The serene lights see her too, her dreams. Hannah sleeps well on rainy nights and wakes up with clang of a coin onto their aluminium plate.

    Rin stays up late at night. The silence eats him up. He misses the melody of his piano. He wanted to be a pianist but his father wants him to be a doctor. Art really never was welcomed in his family. They adore digits and diagrams, rates and ratios. Rin remembers in detail when for the last time he performed amidst people, clapping for him. Lights, covering him up. He, drenched in tears of joy, sweat of pride and heavy breaths of hope. But that seemed a dream. And he is awake now. From his window sill he sees the citylights. They look alike the spot lights. The noisy cars talks like excited layman and so he plays. The piano. The citylights see him playing the piano, with his teary eyes.

    Sia’s mother hopes. She hopes a lot, prays a lot. It has been years and since she saw Sia, playing, calling her mother out. She tells her fine stories every night. Sia sleeps well, in a world of half mortality. Her mother hopes she would be calling her soon. She hopes she would wake up, be back from the realm, doctors call it ‘coma’. Every second is hope, she counts onto. Every citylight is a witness. They pray with her.

    Nanami laughs like there is no tomorrow. But the alcohol of joy and gesture of strangers seem lifeless to her. She plays her part at parties, kisses like adorable blood sucker and craves for home like a refugee. She says her stories are different even the citylights don’t know the whole. She writes letters with smoke to her long lost lover. She leaves some letters unsent, inside the ashtray. She leaves her heart on the floor. Burning the love in between her lips, she let the death count how much she lived. She made her choice not to love, anymore. But someday, she breaks it. She breaks it with a cheer of glass and loves a bit more heartbreakingly, on the lap of booze. The citylights kiss her face like wind and stroke her hair.

    I live with them, in a town, dull and mundane. We share the same sky but different rain; same stars but different wishes; same dark nights but different abysses. We see the same citylights but with different stories in our eyes.



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    We share the same sky but different rain; same stars but different wishes; same dark nights but different abysses. We see the same citylights
    but with different stories in our eyes.


  • iamjass 2w

    The dandelion is almost back from detour.
    She will be home soon. :)

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    If you can,
    lend me a pen that writes
    the pain of flowers,
    a paper that didn't come
    from a dead tree
    and a vehicle which would
    take me to my childhood.
    If you can lend so,
    I know, I surely know,
    I would fall in love with you.


  • iamjass 4w

    I will write soon.
    Wait.. Maybe?

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    In a heartbreaking twilight
    her poems fly and reach home
    and when it rains inside
    a little rain, maybe a lot
    the faded pain
    and some more disdain
    She smiles then
    she smiles more
    and looks like an eye
    of a hurricane

    - jasmine

  • iamjass 5w

    Dear John Green,

    It was last summer. And your words came like a less cruel nighttime rain, a breeze in lonesome twilight, the Sakura and like, a friend.

    My eyes have always been a dried ground, cracked up soil, abandoned with the foliage of glee. Precisely a desert. So it soaked all the moisturiser from your words. And then, it rained, outside and inside. Heavily. Mercilessly. All at once.

    I precisely remember the first time i felt it, underneath my skin, deep inside my ribcage. A slight trembling, an anomaly of old blisters, sweat around fingertips, hide and seek of cold and warmth. They all fell upon me like the falling orange maple leaves and they stayed with me. They stay with me daily.

    I always have trusted books and words more than people. If a book promises you something, in reality which it actually does, it would keep that promise in anyway. Books smell of love, peace and friendship. A little less about me and a little more about my favourite stranger. It was a phase of life where i was lost and almost had lost faith in love but in words. And then i found your words. Vivid. Omnipresent. Like daylight. No, not exaggerating.

    Poets tell fine stories to us and we put the last trace of our rapt attention to listen to them without knowing that somehow we are the part of it. There is a fine line between ‘believe’ and ‘trust’. So i believe poets. I believe their words. So i believed you. Though at the end you killed all the people i liked, I believed you. I really really loved Alaska but you made her die, how unpleasant! I really fell for Gus. Jeez, you killed him too! I wanted to smile at the end after shuffling all the pages. I really wanted Margo and Q to be together but you didn’t let that happen too, how unpleasant! Still i liked you and morely, your words. Slowly and then all of them. Within a blink.

    You didn’t actually talk, even if you had done so from Indianapolis, i couldn’t have heard you. But anyhow i listened to you. I remember the nights i spent on being high on dark chocolates and black coffee, with yours words, your stories. Your stories spoke about Love, loss, slice of life and a peripheral journey of agony. Faults, some more faults, sins, sinners, tulips, metaphors and so many. They all belong to some infinity, bigger than our favourite ideas of ‘forever’. Now they belong to me. And i am glad they do. I really am.

    The stories you told me were magicians. Sometimes they were alchemists. They turned my tears into ink, my void into poems, my nothings into somethings. I came out. I smiled. I met people. I lifted my curtains up. I opened the window. I let the whiff in. I breathed. I started walking to become a memory someday. A memory, a good one, of someone, of some people or perhaps of a book. As at the end of the day we all are nothing but memories, under the stars, drenched in rain, amidst cobwebs and dust and sometimes six feet under the soil.

    We all have some friends. They don’t actually speak but we like talking to them. They don’t judge. They just let us smile. They make a home for us. People on earth, call them Books. Then it comes some more friends whom you call ‘friend’, give a nickname, want to be with and also fall for as well. Well, your words resemble those friends.

    Thank you for making me believe in Love. Peace.
    And above all, in Life.

    Happy Valentines Day to you and morely, to your words.


    Guess, this letter too would stay inside the locked drawer. But I'm glad I wrote it. Thank you.
    14.02.2019 #valentine

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    And also, to all the poets who sing love, breathe love
    all the poems who smell love
    all the roses who bloom for eyes
    the Hope that kisses melancholy and disasters
    Spring that makes winter's heart beat
    and my favourite Author,

    Happy Valentines Day



  • iamjass 6w


    Missing something worth reading?
    -soon. Have faith on me. Okay?

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    If someone stays up late, reads books or high on black coffee ; it doesn't always mean that they are depressed or begging God to put them out of their misery. There are some people, simple, who smell like crushed cherry and mundane winter at nighttime. They simply love seeing the stars, blinking and get consumed by the charm. They just listen to the melody of silence. They know how the citylights and breeze from valley collapse into each other. Someday they see rain. They sniff petrichor, slowly, a bit then a lot and then all at once. They smile. They decipher the accents of cigarette smoke, coming from another window. Some unfinished business, some incomplete poems. They smile. Fading out and flickers. And then they let go. At some point, it gets too dark, blurred, nothing can be seen. They still stay awake. They see nobody around, beside and before. Just like the roads of life, empty.
    And still, they survive.

    Someday I see those people. I smile. They smile back. 'cause I'm one of them.


  • iamjass 6w


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    No, no, dear reader. Don't you ask me, how I am. Where those scars come from. Why those dark patches. Why I'm pale. Don't you ask me. Don't you talk about pain. You know, that is only mine. And mine. You have nothing to do with that.

    As I don't write, how I cried. How the left side of my bed is still wet. How red my eyes are. How much I spaced out. I don't write anymore. No. I don't. I certainly don't. How rusty my diary is. How blue overpowers me. I purse my lips. I run awfully. I heave. I crawl. But I don't write. Not anymore.

    And you ask me why.

    All these days, you read me, didn't you?
    You clapped. You praised my words. You admired my brushes, the choice of my strokes. The curvatures. Everything.

    Above all, you fell. You fell for my pain. Perhaps? Perhaps.

    But did you look for any herb for the blister where I bleed from? Did you try to lift the curtain up? Did you gaze at me? Did you dive into my eyes? Did you say you would be my friend? Maybe no. Maybe.

    So dear, my pain is all mine. And only mine.
    And I don't write about it anymore.


  • iamjass 7w

    If you love a book, that loves you back.
    So keep them. Remember their names.


    #writersnetwork (feels good to be back)

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    You pick me up
    that very gaze and we,
    your soft palms, cold fingers
    and a flickering warmth.
    You undress me
    sniff me around
    Top of your nose, frozen.
    Detour on my chest,
    my back and every edge.
    My smell, satisfies you.
    You tighten the grab.
    Whisper, you do.
    My name, my existence
    -I find a home
    I belong to, I sing, I taste glee.
    You inhale me,
    word by word

    Some tears, a pack of joy
    some sweat drops on forehead
    You mop your hand, I see
    I am complete - so I feel

    We meet tiptoe
    We hold hands
    I kiss your pain
    You show me scars
    You show me a face
    nobody has seen before
    - an innocent spring.

    I give you all, show you so.
    An orange autumn
    mundane winter and grey
    blue rain and crimson sunset.
    I pull back the horizon
    you see how far you've made
    Closing your eyes, you let go
    Drop by drop I eat your storm up

    Your lips purse and I see
    a smile, lingering underneath
    warm lips and summer-rose cheeks
    a dimple blooms and lives.

    You fold a corner of me.
    You choose the side randomly
    How naive, but I fell
    I fell for the first gaze.
    You prepare an adios,
    I seek a promise - again someday

    I go back
    where I once belonged to
    Dear reader, sayonara.

    I love you, reader,
    keep me,
    remember my name.
    I say, if you were a book
    you would've wanted the same.

    ~a book, you didn't finish