Mirakee
खुद को बदनाम कर लिया हमने भरी महफिल में,
सब की नजरों में तुझे खुदा कर चले
©shivangi_khajuria
shivangi_khajuria
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तुम दूर रहकर भी एहसास करवाना
अपने पास होने का मुझे,
कि खुद की साँसों से बेगाने होकर
तुम्हारी खुशबू से जिंदा होना बेहतर लगे मुझे.
मैं बिखर जाऊँ रेत सी,
इस कदर तुम देखना मुझे,
फिर छूकर प्यार से,
वापिस तुम समेटना मुझे.
में शीशे सी टूट जाऊँ,
दूर जाने की बात कहो तुम जब भी मुझे
फिर कुछ पल औऱ साथ रहने की खबर से,
वापिस जी लेने का एहसास हो जाए मुझे.
ठंडे रहेंगे मेरे पाँव,
चलना मंजूर होगा उस गीली रेत पर मुझे,
बस नजर झुकाकर,
एक ग़ज़ल सुना देना अपनी महबूब के नाम तुम मुझे.
में बन जाऊँ उस शहर का वो आसान सा रास्ता,
हर उस शहर जहां जाना होगा तुझे,
मेरा हर बार बारिश में भीगना,
बादलों की गरज़ में,
हर बरसती बूँद के साथ,
तुम्हारा प्यार से छू लेने का नया सा एहसास होगा मुझे.
©shivangi_khajuria -
shivangi_khajuria
5w
Read MoreReading my random notes,
It's been 4 am in the morning.
I just heard a bird chirping near my window.
A little It is thundering outside,
A more inside me.
Empty cold roads, with just the noise of a heavy four wheeler passing by in a sudden rush who wants nothing that can stop him.
Which is exactly the opposite of his fast passing scooty, from which the eyes always searches for a reason to slow by.
In the silent slow city, only his heartbeat could add a chaos after seeing her standing nearby.
Just while thinking, i opened my eyes and saw through the window
Lighting and the moan of the cloud,
The drop falls, one after another.
The black sky slowly fading and turning into blues
The birds stops chirping, or maybe they were no more loud enough.
The playlist on shuffle suddenly sings for me,
(With some soft piano notes)
"CITY OF STARS,
ARE YOU SHINING JUST FOR ME,
CITY OF STARS,
THERE'S SO MUCH I CAN'T SEE".
For a while i couldn't stop my heart from smiling
My silent lips followed the lyrics,
It's love,
Yes all we're looking for is love from someone else,
A rush,
A glance,
A touch,
A dance.
I smiled there and continued,
To look in somebody's eyes,
To light up the skies,
To open the world and send them reeling,
A voice that says, i'll be here and you'll be alright.
I don't know if i know,
Just where i will go,
"Cause all that i need is this crazy feeling"
A rat-tat-tat on my heart,
Think i want it to say,
City of stars...
Are you shining just for me...
In the end i only knew,
I always loved sunrises more then sunsets,
And
He was singing with me along in this.
My eyes suddenly fell asleep,
And the song repeated itself.City of stars
(Read the caption)
©shivangi_khajuria -
सुनसान रहती हैं मेरे शहर की सड़कें,
इन्हें तेरे शोर से आबाद होने का इंतजार रहेगा.
©shivangi_khajuria -
बातें जहान भर की होती हैं उसके पास,
हमेशा अगली बार लिए कोई ना कोई छूट जाती है
©shivangi_khajuria -
What else is poetry.
All the raw wood and paper an epicure soul smells,
All the vivid silk dresses on a beloved, which dwells,
Glitters and material that our eyes captures,
Maybe a nest with some small lives under shells, that a mother nurtures.
Every little sound,
To the friction in matchstick and the surface,
When lights the campfire,
And the friction in a gentle touch on a smooth skin
When lights the body to get hired.
It recites a poem,
It is also poetry.
The movement of hands while drawing a painting,
The turning of eyes of a lover being aroused while touching,
The marks of feet on dry sand,
Fingertips, when they moves with the walls, while the feet walks on land.
It is a poem,
It is poetry.
His hands undressing her fine sticked fabric
Her hands pushing him away,
When her heart and curves still craves for his gentle touch a little more.
The eyes that shine, while the hands that are held.
It tells a poem,
It's an another form of poetry.
©shivangi_khajuria -
अंदाज़-ए-बयां रंग बदल लेता है
वर्ना दुनिया में कोई बात नई बात नहीं -
shivangi_khajuria
8w
Read More
At times when i sit blank and empty, i always search for different techniques and styles to communicate my ideas.
In rare instance, via music or less complex words.
Every person who writes something is either a confession or a try to understand about himself or things around him.
Experiences differ, ideas differ, words differ, rhymes differ all these things a variety in the paragraphs or poems we see.
Sometimes it's too romantic or truthful or perfectly putted in words that every single word leaves a sensational touch inside us and sometimes the words brings lies and false hopes and drags us emotionally back and makes a person feel mentally uncomfortable and dead from within.
A writer carries an audacity to convince a person to pull him near to death and sometimes helps in filling a life even in the burnt ashes.
But imagine,
Imagine a person, who is about to end his life falls out of words, his suicide note writes "i don't know what to write" or a sick man feels blank while dying and couldn't give his last message to his son and wife.
Imagine a person who just finished writing a novel gets empty while giving it a "title".
Imagine all the poets and writers have absolutely nothing to write even after they saw a beautiful evening sun, or his beloved in a red silk dress, he don't have words to write a love song for her lover. Tea and coffee, sunrise and sunsets,
Water and sand, sky and land, flowers and plants or being blind when they see people near bus stand.
Imagine us not reading someone's eyes, imagine us not looking for a way of life.
Watching the writer inside you dying slowly,
A slow death of paralysed minds and hands.
The world will end before it's end.
So, find beauty in things, this is what everyone's work should be.
See someone's dance or paint.
Or listen to a person's voice in rain.
See your lover's folds and edges.
See an animal and their sledges.
Listen to the rain drops falling on a stell,
Or a fold of a thread, or smoke rising from an ash tray.
See the mere folding of a fabric, see the mating of clouds and thier showering.
See the lights, see the rays, listen to the humming of a steel or shdes of Grey's.
Feel yourself lucky that your hands can still strike a canvas and will never left the canvas blank.
Even after there's a painting that even you won't understand.
The world's cold and you are warm.
Draw/write and love the warmth that your pages and your hands together creates.
Don't mind critics, don't forget art in little things,
don't forget all your gloomier moments, don't let the things die,give them a life through your pens and drawings.
Write about anything,
Maybe not in an intellectual/professional way but in a loved way.
And never make the writer inside you feel,
That you fell out of words while writing.
Because a writer is never,
Never ever out of words.When a writer falls out of words.
(Read the caption)
©shivangi_khajuria -
दिन भर की धूप के बाद
शाम की बारिश साथ लाने वाला बादल था वो,
जिसकी बूंदों से खिले फूलों की खुशबू
हमेशा मेरी सांसों में रहेगी
©shivangi_khajuria -
shivangi_khajuria
10w
Read More
In a rush, in the crowd, in the traffic full of lights
In chaos, in silence, in all these empty nights,
I have him in my closed eyes.
Making me fall in love with the stars and sky,
Depths and heights.
Discovering Movies, cinema, romance and drama,
while wandering between the city lights.
He's as pure as dry woods,
His voice strikes like soothing humming of the steel.
His touch falls like the drop of water on dry sand.
His smell calms me like of a newly opened novel.
And I still don't know if these comparisons can draw him justice.
The thrill in feeling his love makes me explore the best words and lyrics from the whole world,
To adorn him in a beautiful love song.
Discovering and visiting all the beautiful places,
To embroid an adventure with him along.
My crayons will paint him in the most beautiful portrait one day,
Appealing a steady gaze of him, of what he looks like if he sees himself through my eyes and heart.
For me, every beautiful thing in this world is a part of this art.
Art of purity,
Art in him.
Starts would still have a count,
But the sonnets and love lullabies won't stop its count even after all the dead bodies collides.
On the day when world will be on the edge of destruction,
All the sonnets and love songs will not be the part of that apocalypse,
Not letting the lovers of the beautiful world die.
Likewise, you'll live in my words forever.
And that's how, we'll never have to say goodbye.
Because of him,
I felt, i could write,
What was "love".
Being with him, had started to make me feel things.
With him every end was a new beginning.
I never had guts to tell him what he was to me,
All i can tell is,
HE IS THE REASON WHY I AM WRITING THIS POEM.
©shivangi_khajuriaHe's an art.
(Read the caption)
©shivangi_khajuria
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बहुत मशरूफ हैँ वो आजकल रिश्ते निभाने में ...
कभी नज़रें मिलाने मे......कभी नज़रें चुराने में l
©रिक़्त -
thegreymetaphor
1w
Read MoreI'm in my very early teens
when a classmate walks up
and looking at my black painted nails
she says, "It's a bad women's trait."
The elder brother she looks up to
has told her that girls who
wear black paint aren't virgins
and so, my heart sinks.
Not at the ridiculousness of it,
not at the tragedy of my character
being defined by a colour
but at the possibility of people
seeing me as "impure".
I do not paint my nails black after that.
I'm 15 now about to choose
the stream I'd like to study further
when an elder tells me
there's no point in dreaming
what's beyond your reach.
I clench my fists
and immediately bite my tongue
so it wouldn't talk back.
I'm 16 and my english teacher
tells the class that she should not
find the word "rape" in our
answer scripts for it's too crude.
So we write modesty outraged, instead.
I'm 17 and I discover
my lip shade is too loud and
the depth of my neckline decides
whether or not I'm "asking for it".
I've worn my lipstick like
written apologies ever since.
I'm 18 when the person beside me
slips his hand up my waist
and I sit there holding my breath
too stunned to react.
I run towards my father to complain
but the aunts hold me back.
"Boys will be boys", they say
"would you ruin the family relation
over something like that?"
So I clench my fist, bite my tongue
and zip it up, once again.
Until I'm 19 and it repeats.
Same audacity, same insolence
with a different face.
But I can't take it again so I turn
to the world this time.
I write poems to pour it all out.
But along with the open arms
come the raised eyebrows.
"Not all men!" they scream.
And I cower back not knowing
when did I ever say all men.
I slowly turn back as I watch
the world quarrel amongst itself.
When did the narrative
become all about who to blame
and who not to blame?
Where did my trauma get lost?
Why do I have to explain
and beg for audience's discretion?
Is the audience that naive?
Or does it prefer living in denial?
So I stop writing "those" kind of poems
thinking I'll return when I have
the right kind of poem.
I'm past 20 now and I still
do not know what
the right kind of poem looks like.
I do not know how unafraid
I've come to be or how far I'm yet to go
but I do know that
I do not bite my tongue anymore.
I might not throw fists but
never again would I clench them
just to swallow the poison.
I would not explain being a feminist
with the disclaimer "I do not hate men"
everytime, just so you approve.
I would not beg for what's right.
My demands are not requests
but they are willing to wait
for you to understand that
they're anything but unreasonable.
For you to realise that
there are millions like me and
our defiance is not an act of aggression
but a cry for consideration.
And until that happens,
I'll glide the lipstick on my lips
like the pen I put my signature with.
And I'll wear my nails black
better than the distaste
you wear on your face at the sight of it.
©Srishti
__________________________________________________________
It cannot get simpler than this.
Is that the right kind of poem?That kind of poem.
I do not know what
the right kind of poem looks like.
©thegreymetaphor -
neelthefeel
1w
Read Moreमेरा जो एक सनम है...
कलमकार है हम बोहोत ज़्यादा लिखते है.
जो शायद ज़माने कों नहीं दिखा पाते उस
बयां कों अलफ़ाजो क़े सहारे हालातो की
असलियत अरमानो की क़लम से लिखते है.
जीने की नई रीत और अधूरी रह गई है जो प्रीत
जो सीखा गई हो शायद हमको यही है जीवन की रीत.
यूं ही नहीं बनते अधूरे प्यार क़े किस्सों पर हज़ारो गीत.
बीकता है गम गली मोहल्ले मुफ्त मैं जबकी उधार पड़ी है
नींदे वफादार आशिको की जिम्मेदारीयों क़े बाज़ार मैं.
क्या कहे क़े क्या है हम.बस घुट रहा है दम.
बस ज़िन्दगी हैरा है.ख्वाहिश भी परेशान है.
जिस लफ्ज़ की कमी थी. वो मेरा आशना है.
क़ुछ जख्म जो दिए है. एहसान जो किए है.
जिन्हे मानते थे सब क़ुछ. वही अश्क़ो से गिरे है.
नजरों से क्या गिले है.क्यों जिल्लतो से मिले है.
क़ुछ फूल जो खिले है.पतझड़ मैं वो गिरे है.
तेरी रंजिशो क़े बन मैं ये ज़िन्दगी गुज़ारु एक
उफ़ तलक ना होंगी जो खुदको मैं भूला दू.
बस पास हो मेरे तू एक ये करम ख़ुदा हो.
मुझे मांग कर दिला दे मेरे फुर्सतो का वाली.
जीवन पड़ा है खाली लगता है जैसे गाली.
मुझे माफिया तो बक्शे जो कर्म भी किए है.
ज़िंदा तो हद से ज्यादा पर कितने हम जियें है.
दारु नहीं है पीते पर है नशे मैं जीते.
बस रूह की तलब है और दर्द क़े सहारे.
मेरे गम मुझे डुबोदे इतना करम तो कर दें.
मेरे सनम हो मेरे दिल और क़ुछ ना चाहे.
कीमत ही क्या है मेरी जो खुद कों बेच आए.
करते नहीं है पीछा अब मेरे खुद क़े साए.
क्या ये अदब ये जीवन सब लग रहे पराए.
मैं खुद कों यूं जला दू. मैं खुदको क्या सजा दू.
एक जुल्म है वफा ये. मैं तुझको और क्या दू.
तुम थे मेरे सनम जो. अनजान क्यों हो बनते.
बन जाओ मेरी ख्वाहिश. आजाओ मुज़हतलक तुम.
कब तक मैं देखु राहें. ये दिल जो तुमको चाहे.
भरता रहू मैं आहें. तरसी हुई निगाहें.
तरसी हुई है बाहे. आजाओ थाम लो तुम.
क्यों फिर रहे हो गुम-सुम. किस राह पर हो भटके.
मेरा जो एक सनम है. शायद मेरा भरम है.
पछताए क्या करू मैं तो खुद पे हस रहा हूँ...
मेरा जो एक सनम है. शायद मेरा भरम है.
पछताए क्या करू मैं तो खुद पे हस रहा हूँ...
©����������������������..
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atticoftheheart
2w
Read MoreIt's you
The boy with the brown hair
And brown eyes that glisten
The cheeks that go red so easily
That smile that could light up a room
It's you
The one who distracts me from my sadness
Who is a face to imagine when I need you
The boy I live so far from
Yet couldn't feel any closer
It's you
The one I met at the perfect time
The boy who showed me I was lovable
Right when I felt I wouldn't find love again
When everything hurt and you took it away
It's you
The one the other side of the world
Who I can't wait to meet
Because the calls with friends are nice
But being with you would make me whole
It's you
The one who's pain I wish I could take away
The person I wish I could make feel right
The boy who's stuck in the wrong body
But the one I get to call mine
It's you
The one who listens to me rant at 3am
Who makes me feel safe
The boy who's hand I want to hold
And my shoulder to cry on
It's you
The one who helps me come alive
Who helps me feel the most like me
When I feel like I'm a ghost
It's you who makes me feel alive.
©atticoftheheartI managed to find the beauty,
Buried beneath your pain;
Your little bit of sunshine,
Life had buried;
Though its possession you retained.
©atticoftheheart -
प्रतीक्षारत हूँ मैं,
तू भी तो वहीं आएगा,
मिलेंगे दो जीव, शिव के पास!
©jigna_a -
गुज़र रही है शाम आहिस्ता आहिस्ता
सिर्फ़ उनके नाम आहिस्ता आहिस्ता
- हिमांशु श्रीवास्तव -
love_whispererr
1w
Read MoreI paint a sky with blue crayons but my tiny hand can't draw kites and gorgeous birds on the meadow of soaring sky. But those pregnant clouds beg in front of me to place them on my blue sky and I try to romanticize my crayons to tint some black clouds and they're about to give birth some metaphors with the nudges of rain drops.
I spray some red colors on the petals of a forgotten rose and it twirl its head with the melody of summer rain and breezes of my sweetheart's megalopolis. And near a faded facade, that rose blooms with a poetic smile on its lips and it opens out while crumpling some wild flowers with its amorous fragrance.
I want to decorate a poem with the colors of Van Gogh, with the history of Babylon and Cleopatra, with the melodies of Bukowski and with the hues of Sylvia Plath. But behind a blue veil of life, I sleep with the paintings and truths of death.
Let's paint together with some dark nights ;
Let's decorate that night with silken stars ;
Let's spray some happiness on those tiny hearts.
Let's....
©Bidya B.
(23rd Feb, 2021)
#paintingc #diaryentry #wod
Thank you @writersnetwork ��I dream my painting and I paint my dream.
-Vincent Willem van Gogh -
still_fragile
1w
Read MoreI painted a picture of
your tears
Instead of your smile
Your scars
Instead of your beautiful body
I painted not you but who you are.
I painted you in black and in red
I painted you in pain and misery.
I painted you in tainted glory
Only to paint it with black over again.
I don't know who you are,
I don't remember you anymore.
Come back, will you please.
I'll paint you again.
#paintingc @writersnetwork
@writersbay #wod
It made more sense in my head lol
23 February | TuesdayI was painting a picture
A picture of who I thought you were.
©still_fragile -
thousand_splendid_thoughts
2w
Read More'I remember moulding into a lover'
I remember differentiating between
what's a house and a home.
I remember defining house as a building
where we live and a home as a place where
we love and live for each other.
I remember me being a house
and I remember you making it a home.
I remember not remembering that I have a body which could carry so much love until you came like a peaceful evening wind and turned me into a storm.
I remember my love for you, a love so natural,
a love defining all the definitions of love,
a love looking like all the poems ancient
revolutionaries wrote about their lovers.
I remember me turning into all those
rebellious lovers.
I remember me having courage sitting
cross-legged inside my blood which feared no fate.
I remember me loving myself a little too for the way
I love you.
I remember me just being a normal body of rusted
morals surviving on 2 panic attacks per month and
then you giving me a soul.
©thousand_splendid_thoughts
Ps- thank you for letting me live a love which all those renowned poets have talked about in their beautiful poems.
Here it is @galvanizedthoughts with major changes. I kept my promise and I hope my eyebrows would be safe now XD..
