On this Sun-day connoted with last brisk February winds, I again wonder my ancient wonders.
When I was 9, my father for the first time recited me poems of Robert Frost, and my mother made me discover paintings of Vincent Van Gogh. Since then, I always thought: Don't the words hold secret colours, which when read daub paintings in void minds? A painter's hands are filled with hues which create a different abstract on their own prevailed by none but a painter, and so are the words, when written leave scribbles of unwritten lost words in minds which when crooned together, are a muse on their own, that a writer knows, none else. Both Writings and Paintings are blended in depth of graces and ingenuity, sometimes even remaining unfathomed. They don't differentiate much, do they? And this question stretched till forever— unheard, unanswered. At the age of 10, As I grew with both pen marks splintered from metaphors admiring the g(old)en lyrics of radios, and watching colours dribbling from brushes since a very young age, I lately started answering reasons the terms 'painter' and 'writer' are split for. Writers roar in diaries through words, and painters cry dripping colours in sketchbooks, but maybe if Van Gogh would behold a flower, he would compare it with tranquility, when Frost compared it to leaves. A painter's shades thrive in brushes when a writer's greys hide behind the words. Maybe a writer dreams moon in days, when a painter idolizes the dawns that are at the moment? Brushes and Pens both sway, but brushes perhaps praising the sky miles away when pens crying to clutch it? Again, my 10th year ended with questions. At the age of 11, I ended these thoughts with a consequence of lost words. But now, yearning them to become a muse for someone, and not a memory listed in "I used to wonder" what I still wonder— Being 13, remembering hypothesis and colossal of words now untethered, I unlock again the old chamber of collapsed observations, untold and unseen. And eventually, my heart answers— "The writers capture lies picturing realities when painters showcase realities which reminisce lores, and maybe Almighty does both?" And again, this wonder lasts with a question.
Raindrops mosey dripping down My pa(ne/in) to drench poetries When the summers bleed away And forevers of happiness fall Singing tributes to promises broken In blues to hearken woes around.
When I don't wish to Wipe out the captured sunshine But also unwanting the blues to Be digged deeper and get lost As the mayhem basks under pleasure The Rainbow blooms within the sky.
Memories sown under with dry depths Dampened by drops to wet again And spread the petrichors of past Synchronized with giggles and tears Like the peacocks dancing on ditties Which are sung by the tears of Nature.
The summers had melted hearts With yellow Suns and Sunflowers And blurred eyes with lambent lights But the rain now depicts blue truths How the hues when draped under hopes Then become agonies in skies.
I rot in monologues of dirt And traverse with hardships On corroding roads, for what I am. But when I kiss Grandma's roses But instead they die under And leave a souvenir of aroma I hide eulogies beneath my so(le/ul)
I swamp in cats and dogs— Falling from sky, for the poet To walk in rain and dampen Some of dried metaphors, rhymes One for me perhaps, for what I am. But I ain't even in moments so I Spot blues of drops better than him.
Him barefooted would bleed all Of his allegories already and so I gawk the seasons amble by as The writer won't if I don't Though I don't like withering like flowers But I don't mind cause my journey Is destined, for what I am
I am now aged and weakened One muddy step and I drowse Not too strong to be tucked or tugged Teased by brisk weathers when Once went untrodden by robust storms I expected the writer to behold me But I knew I was a sojourner, for what I were.
Sorry Didu, couldn't give Charlie's letter, My projects aren't letting me do so ;___;;; But Happy Birthday Diduuuu!!! Me lobes uu a lot, you are the best person, and also one of the firsts to support me :'). Never go from here, and keep posting your masterpieces @tengoku
This is a piece that I wrote back in November of 2016. I felt a need to repost it today. Thank you all for reading; and thank you always for your support, kindness, and your presence and contributions here amongst us. You are all very appreciated. ♥️
Life, when I was seven, was a breeze. Happiness would often come in small, pretty things. A butterfly hair clip, new pencils with strawberry-scented erasers, bubble gums in all colors of the rainbow, pink and blue cotton candies, Hershey's Kisses chocolates(which I would hide in secret compartments where my sisters won't find easily), and other whatnots a kid would find joy.
Back then, I couldn't wait to grow up and discover life's enigmas. Of why do grown-ups don't smile and laugh out loud as much as they did when they were young. Why do they walk as if they carry the world on their shoulders? Why do they build higher fences instead of longer tables? Why can't they love without reservations? Why do they constantly compare themselves to other people? Why do they have trust issues?
Funny, how as kids we were often told to keep quiet and stop asking a lot of "nonsense" questions, yet, we weren't told when to speak. Now that I'm all grown up, once in a while, I still ask myself the same questions in my solitude. And it scares me to even think that one day, I'd wake up as someone who forgot how to live life to the fullest.
Isn't it ironic that we whine about how twisted adult life can get, yet, it seems we're always anxious to ask? Or is it because oftentimes, we don't know how and when to ask the right questions anymore?
Carried by the stormy winds, a wrinkled guava leaf falls near the tall riding boots of the candle flickering with a bluish golden flame on the rosewood table.Between the curtains is the blushing February twilight crooning love songs for the half moon.I can whisper to my mind there's nothing in these daydreaming smiles but my heart carries a caravan of his essence just like the diffused fragrance of mustard seeds blooming in a mellow field.
The days slipping in the rings of my fingers where his absence smells like a long forgotten ancient city has spray painted the desire to meet him, to be able to tell him that in the deepest chambers of my soul his name is engraved in stone pillars. Lately I have clutched the fabric of daydreams and wiped off the sharp creases of longing.
The half eaten almond breeze flung a pashmina shawl over my senses as I was reminiscing our sweet memories standing on crushed pink petals of garden in the evening. Bird song was collapsing on my palms and leaves dancing in the air were falling gently near my feet. I had lost the track of time and I felt the raindrops playing merry go round on my skin at half past seven.
I wish to empty this barrel of words before my beloved when sunrays dipped in golden paint strokes the canvas of sky into a spectacular sunset but I know words will dissolve in my tongue when we will meet again and all that will remain will be silence wrapped in yearning.
What? My lame thoughts are being appreciated Thank you so much @writersnetwork for the kind repost ❤ 20.02.2020 (3) My first pod everrrr It literally feels like a daydream to me. Just when I thought I should leave writing, mirakee came to support. Thank you so much @mirakee for the first ever pod❤❤
I think we've met in my conscious sleep twice or thrice. You're an ancient soul, never praised for being so. Unlike me you're an introvert, lost, inside the blues and greys, in this motley world.
No matter how harsh the surroundings get, you're always calm. You're the peaceful side in my restless soul. I know I never acknowledge your presence or thank you, but I need to say, you're really really important for my existence. You're my spine, my drive, everything that keeps me intact in this broken world.
On our first meeting, you didn't talk much about who you were. I never asked you, but I realized you wanted to converse through silence, as if it was the best language we could speak. Your crimson hands, your face sparkling like a firefly, your dark hair and your hazel eyes, you looked like me, you looked like poetry.
On our second meeting, I knew who you were. Out of nowhere I blamed you for everything, for my shaking hands, for my disappearing words, for my anxious self. Deep down I was jealous of you. Because once I was you and you were me. And you simply said, ' Calm down. Introspect. Hear it, silence is the answer to all your anxiety. '
You've taught me patience. You're the one who makes me strong. I can let everyone go but you. All my metaphors are festooned with the sanguinity you give me. You're the poet, I am just a medium you break through the silence. Return home soon, my sky is forlorn without you.