upple, it was supposed to feel But mirrors reflected cracks, beige. hine own art wasn't considered to behold Yearns filled for those lines to be scraped away. ℝipped apart by the believes Lurking doubts flurried, yes were blinded by the dreams, Gaping, as the differences prevailed. houghts derailed, Now constructed visions ℂhastened by what grew along your inches. Moulding that heart time after time, ℍolding a drape across, everytime, You now wish to grasp back the abandoned courage, aking up yourself to embrace the change. Let that drape fall, undisguised you Now find yourself walking past the raven eyes, liberated. t nights when the fingers run beneath the linen To touch your skin, almond honey, ℝealise that nothing hinders the warmth you radiate, Slowly release the sails, for no more its a hurricane. eenly look forward, to another day. What if acceptance didn't come easy or at all, o long have been the process When finally you stopped looking yourself in disdain. @k_arathi : Have I accepted that these lines are beautiful? No! Have I stopped seeing them as scars? Yes! I'll confess of hoarding body butters and oils for the lines that stretch across my skin but its revelation has never flooded me with sense of shame, never. There are many out there who'll relate to finding themselves oscillating between 2 thoughts :- whether wanting to lighten the marks shall make you a seeker of idealisation or if accepting the marks shall make you unbothered about your body. To be honest you don't have to be restrained to follow one thought. It's okay to make efforts for yourself and all the while feel contented with the current state of it. It's okay to define a confident version of yourself and to seek it. #pod#ceesrepost @writersnetwork@mirakee@readwriteunite
‡ Chamomile ‡ "Wreathe of prickles and petals Entwined in each other's presence, Palms that feared to bleed Didn't dare to wreck the pair." Laying somewhere in the mahogany antique, You whisper to me its glory And my heart anchors itself to its essence.
Through the rants that echoed The monosyllables uttered, Faith that leaps over the minutes Bliss hanging on tight. It's the chamomile evenings Which reminds me of mended hopes Sipping through its peace I repose into the memories divine.
They never told About the tides we'll have to survive against, While chasing the sunsets pretty. Pillows that swallow my sighs Stacking it over The memories from the moaning nights. Giggles and dreams Like fireflies, Scintillates within the four walls. I wrap my arms around Flesh and bones. You.
Mornings glazed with glances anew My steps longed to witness The wreathe That breathes our beginning. My eyes behold As it lays withered, Realisations and assumptions stutter, But there came your whisper, "Together they demised Along the clocks that ticked time But none out there wrecked the pair." @spilling_thoughts_ : : Since forever "Love" has been my favourite metaphor to weave comparison to misery, happiness or utopia. I have been asked several times about falling in love but its more about it being the embodiment of several of my emotions and eventually this became my favourite expression to hold on to. Cliche or not, shallow or deep resonating to a feeling and venting your heart out does not need a definition. All you need to do it let out and feel alive through it. @writersnetwork@mirakee@mirakeeworld@readwriteunite#ceesreposts
★Arum Lilies ★ Basking in the moments Auburn skies calling in for the night, Like rushing through the mustard fields Palms against the winds, Grasping nothing Sailing through time.
Steps creaking Against the norms, Hushed secrets sneaking Away from the scorns, Nestling in the quilted dreams The sleep filled the eyes with content Night after night.
Myths didn't instill the adversities Yet wrapped our heads with dreams. To date, I read out our memoirs Inked with imperfections Dated promises And four-leaf clover resolves. I read it out As an au revoir to the feelings, Obliged to you Breathing through me.
With a parting eulogy I picked up 2 arum lilies One for each of us, Joining your demise Adorning my vacant corner.
~ Dandelions ~ My steps trace along the dawn Through the grounds well known, Like a ritual accustomed I reach at the edge of the cliffs And in between the raves of the shores I collect the whispers that the zephyrs bring. Wanting it to be your mumbles, I breathe it in, Feel it all.
Under the glow Sunlit honey, I play the montage Filled with memories, And as it rolls against the mundanity of time Pulses get lured out of its rhythm It dances a little tipsy In the sobriety of now, In the memories of whiskey twilights.
People here haven't normalised To see me tripping over the present. They name my longing as Melancholia Ask me to stitch a new facade.
But springs haven't given me away To the first frosts, The scent of me as "me" is still staunch, It's a phase I need to be in Where I pluck your dandelions One by one Out of my lawns, Wanting to tuck it behind my ear I pay visit to your stone And drop them Whilst naming it my grave for the emotions Foregone. @k_arathi : : : Poetry that hits at midnight ✨ @writersnetwork@readwriteunite@mirakee#ceesreposts #pod
You didn't board on the boat Won't realise falling into an abyss Paper facades Dreams dissipated into the thin air You drift into the dark Just to paint it in your hues To get lost through the spaces You wish to be found in.
Muffled chaos Howling echoes One Mississippi Two Mississippi Three Missisi.. You struggle A breath short Choking on the words unsaid Blown wick of will.
23 missed calls Their thoughts Proven abstract Mocked maniac. But Amidst the crowd known There was the one Who lent their ears on the 24th call.
Anguishes heard. Four Mississippi Took too long to follow But because You knew someone was on the other side You decided to reach out to the light. The present materialises.
This reach won't promise you A studded forever But that particular moment You were saved. @k_arathi -------------------------------------------------- It can't be stressed enough on how important it is to talk your heart out with somebody and more importantly to be the listener that the troubled one seeks for. I might not be the best one to preach about how to prevent depression and anxiety from manifesting a being but I know that a burdened heart yearns to share its load, someone to make them feel that they aren't alone. It's the sense of being lost that drives them to not feel the need to be ever found. This state is often a labyrinth, connecting dots from most unrelated places to draw dubious conclusions. Words might fall short and fear of contradiction may loom over but a call for help is the pitstop you'll need. : @writersnetwork@mirakee
Kites scattered in the sky, Voices from afar And I am lead back to Loiter around the words Picturing between the lines, The aisles of Kabul coming alive And tales of the strikingly typical lives began its flight.
Untainted naivety of Hassan and Amir, the one restrained in the tumults of his beliefs. I left a trail of tears As the pages unleashed the journey of Unwavering faith, Covert betrayals, Quest for redemption.
The sins that got silenced, Tongues tied in denial, The chaos unheard, Wars heart wrenching, And promises upheld, I was torn apart Between Venturing in the shoes of Amir And reluctance to leave behind the buoyant pages.
Once you have seeped in all the words The images shall roll in front of your eyes, And I hope as you descend into the epiphany of "For you, a thousand times over", You'll find yourself Under the shade of the pomegranate tree Amidst the dreams of those undaunted young hearts. Sultans of Kabul, as once dreamt One reigned dying for the cherished The other lived upholding his essence. @k_arathi : : The Kite Runner By Khaled Hosseni is an absolute gem. Re-reading it made me go through the emotional ride all over again. I couldn't keep myself from dedicating my words to this❤️ @writersnetwork@mirakee@readwriteunite
The train arrives there, just a few feet away from you. You press your feet onto the platform and jump on the train, find a seat and begin the journey.
A platform made just for you, but not the train.
Seat A1-9 berth number 5, easy to find, hard to stay. It's a sleeper coach, apparently non AC tier since AC tiers are occupied by people who have been travelling for quite a long time now. You know it's going be a long journey, so you decide that a casette with plethora of songs, of every genre would be fit for you. You insert the casette inside the place it's supposed to be inserted in, unlike the uncertainty you don't know you'll face when you land on the other side and rest your back on the berth, sometimes oscillating between sleeping, and waking up, with eyes spread wide and alert.
Welcome to life.
The casette starts running and the music starts playing. The roll is long, so you don't worry about when the playlist will die out of songs to flood in your years, at least for now.
And you start to paying attention to every song you listen to.
I. Some songs are those you don't like, but you still listen to them, hoping they would pass as quickly as a rainy day.
II. They don't damage your ears, and you don't hate them. They are like pawns in chess, not as important as the Queen or King, but you still have them. And they still have you. Yet, both, the song, and you, know that you're not liked by each other and as if naturally, you create two paths from a single one: two paths that silently diverge: one for you, and one for the song, to leave.
III. You like them, a lot. And you have, thankfully, the option to repeat them. This is the time you realize that some songs are better heard only for a countable number of times and then left because they tend to become tiresome in keeping up with the repetition. And after a few songs, you stop regretting your decision to let go. And the song forgets you too.
IV. These songs calm you, console and comfort you. The beats, instruments and and ambience sprinkle the feeling of home. And it really is. They help you get over the loss of songs in the category number three and live your life and continue your exploration of finding calm in the chaos. You don't want them to go away.
V. They make you stand up on your seat, not bother about a thing coming out from the mouth of rest of the passengers, wave your hands in the air, and go wild. (What is life without a little risk?) Wild enough to take risks, live a life surrounded by adventure, memories and a lot of smiles and laughs and giggles and chuckles. And love, and joy and warmth. They're the best kind of songs.
VI. They're the serious ones, making you fix the nail of the purpose you chose when you chose to travel on this train. They keep you grounded, and inspired.
VII. They carry a sense of nostalgia that isn't good. You don't like them bothering you after listening to songs in category five and six. They make you think of events that took so long to forget. But all you can do is wait for that song to pass.
VIII. Songs on repeat when you never expected them to show up. They make you smile. Raw nostalgia. The happy nostalgia. And you want to sieze every moment of that song before they go away as well. And you won't be sad unlike your reaction to when songs in category three stopped playing because you never expected them to see you in the first place. You were good at letting them go, with a sigh of mixed feelings. But you were happy they showed up once again.
Eight categories for me. How about you?
P.S if you still haven't got it yet, these categories represent people we come across as life passes by. ____
You can't write right now I tell myself and open my folder to get back to work An hour passes and I feel my heart shifting against my chest Arent you going too harsh on yourself? I ask myself. Weren't you the one who told your little sister to express whenever tenebrous emotions hover above your head?
I understand you have plethora of tasks to be completed. But don't you think your eyes are bleeding? Atleast let them release the lump of grief they have been holding on for weeks. Come on, you aren't the one who believes that people who cry are weak. I know life looks like El Nino, this is why monsoons who were supposed to visit you haven't arrived yet.
Fine, don't write but please speak. Will you? Tell me how every morning you push you body like a boulder up and down the hill repeating ' The Myth of Sisyphus'. Tell me how you put a satin cloth betwixt your lips when they shriek of petrichor of love just like how your mother puts cotton balls in her ears when your father forgets to shut his mouth leaking disrespect. Tell me how the loop of failures has dragged you to places, with the rope of feeble hopes which break in between the road and leave you crashing against your own courageous soul.
Is the pandemic bothering you? Are you also afraid of dying? Even if you say yes I won't believe. I have seen you slitting your lips with unsaids, tying your future to the ceiling fan, scribbling suicide letter addressed to your mother who doesn't know that her daughter is fighting a battle. A battle which no one will ever know about. In fact you too are unaware.
Listen, take a deep breathe, close your eyes and surrender. The story writer must be aware about the plight he has been hurling upon you. 'I won't give up' write this in big red neon letters and paste it on the wall in front of you where you death bounces every night. Let this moment be about light. No, I don't promise you the gigantic happiness wearing the overcoat of success, but this moment, I can give you a smile.
Why do you even think about tomorrow? Who knows if you'll even doodle your presence on blank morning tomorrow. So just relax, enchain your racing thoughts, and trust the plan of story writer. I know you aren't an atheist like he was. Then why are you worrying even if it is the devastating thunderstorm?
Quickly close you eyes let the moonlight travel deep down your dungeoned soul. Abandon the stack of Kafka's letters, and let this night be about yourself.No, you don't have to pretend to be strong. For once just take little steps towards the woods of acceptance, life will certainly crop up like the nymph, just as the one you've always wanted to meet.
I am starting a new hashtag....if you are a real Potter head then please share your Harry Potter qoutes/poems/stories/dialogue....and many more with the hashtag mentioned below....... And don't forget tag me!!!! *I'll repost every post in which I am tagged and the post is to be mentioned under the hashtag mentioned below! So Potter heads it's the time to express your feelings about the #harrypotter series. And the most awaited hashtag is #potterheadsup
(A lil late for my afternoon diary..still here it is) I miss thinking on brighter stuff !
As I awoke from the brief siesta, The first thing I felt was I couldn't bear To see the brilliant sun rays Beaming into my world of tranquil murkiness.
I heard the cell ringing at a distance It's vibration shaking the wooden frame Like an over-the-ground tiny quake. The white curtains of the verandah Glimmering an ethereal golden The sun suddenly losing its sheer shine As if robbed off totally by the world behind. The artefacts that adorned the rooms Now spoke a dialect I couldn't decipher As if came to life by the warmth of pure delight. The walls around me too looked stronger The air contained within them A fragment more livelier than when I slept off.
The birds chirping and dancing away On the shaking twigs still, they held at bay. The azure skies smiled at me As if trying to impart to my confused being; A happiness even it knew I was bereft of living in. I stood myself near the open window, Feeling the wind on my face as if; Slamming me awake back into this earthly abode.
As I breathe in the aroma of tea leaves, Set to boil in the kitchen, I see before me The million fragments of my dreams Fading off into the white of clouds Stand as I, below the cerulean envelope Forever waiting to enlighten my sight.
With every evening, the dark clouds arrive Shielding the golden envisage, Natheless we cope with the selcouth darkness Yet to arrive for the night. The sounds of nature take on a hollow array The songs of birds muffled by the evening sigh As dusk makes its way into the mundane, We write more of shadows in our poems and verses Than the beams of a sun that made us feel alive.
The enchanting fortress of the moon, Yet to show up in the dark of night, Echoes through the voided spaces in sight. Our hands trembling to bring to life, A profound darkness to calm our hefty minds.
As I look up from the notebook in my hand The white orb of a world has already been drenched, In the crimson hue of the setting sun light. The chill in the air intensifying every moment My chambers getting obscured as I sit still, Beside the window, watching the world As if covered by a film of smoke so grey.