Mirakee
©someone_alive
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someone_alive
1w
Read More21st February.
3 p.m.
Dear Dairy,
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.
@writersnetwork thanks for the like❤️
—Anjali
#diaryentry #wod -
someone_alive
1w
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����...
Thank you, you are love @writersnetwork
8th��
#observation #wod #wnisalive©someone_alive
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someone_alive
3w
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A S H E S
Agonies dark caged for
Ardour of envious
Alliterating crimes
Amble through words of past
Agile rulers kill the
Ascending souls with the
Adieus unbidden
B A T T L E S
Beloveds burnt alive leave
Bloodshed we never see
Broken hearts with dark grieves
Blasphemies woven from
Bruised faiths creating the
Ballads more profound than
Burnt's epithets on grave
C R O W N
Cradle of the loved crown
Catharsis for others
Chaos for one at sail
Crystal clear blessing
Creating eulogies
Capturing unique reigns
Callous on the gallants
D E M O N S
Draped as the warriors
Dragons past had once lost
Dag own posts for which had
Died who were gifted with
Dauntlessness immortal
Drenched as divine ones are
Demons from delusions
E T E R N I T Y
Endless repulse of braves
Escorting to todays
Emperors holding the
Eloquence of stretching
Ethereal souls with
Entities of real
Embellishing laters
F A T E S
Fortunate tales of some
Fables named by lost ones
Faint lines drawn in hands hold
Fleeting fates of beliefs
From inhaling birth till
Frozen breaths during death
Faith seeming fictional
G R A C E
Gaudy walls staring the
Glimpses of immense grace
Glories of elegance
Glistening from power
Gaiety race with poise when
Gloom is beneath unseen
Galore of tears hid
H A T R E D
Hollers echo always
Heartbreaks still fresh noising
Hereditary rules
Hurting piercing through
Hearts with Godly wills who
Hearken to change not reign
Hating kingship of fates.
I D O L S
Illusionary eyes
Iota of fiction
In everliving stone
Inspirations too strong
Ideals for youths now
Indulged their lives to be
Immortals never gone
J O U R N E Y S
Jammed in fortunes while some
Jostled with agonies
Jiggling of invaders
Jagging their lives hard by
Jarring dynasties that
Juggle soaring for their
Journeys to meet an end
K I N G S H I P S
Kismet destines to whom
Keys of kingdom trails to
Kings, some too fearless
Knife stabbers while are some
Knight's screams echo in thrones
Kindling braveries carved
Killing personal woes
L A M E N T S
Lethal tragedies come
Letting one long to die
Lambent lights leave with blues
Lost in monotonous
Laments to leap steps and
Last no longer now as
Love and life have withered
M O M E N T S
Musings captured from birth
Mazes of teenage the
Marital life of Prince
Merry times of here to
Murderous moments and
Maleficent things and
Mending rages are seen
N A I V E T Y
Nightmares befell as
Naivety comes when they
Needed wisdom and strength
Nobles defeated by
Numerous of mistakes
Natal king's place burned and
Nurtured courage of foes
O B L I V I O N
Oracles narrating
Obscure situations
Opportunities to
Over the fights and wars
Oozed from the hourglass soon
Obstinate faults that had
Ordered darkness to come
P A S T
Poets bleeding words of
Precise nostalgia
Praising and condemning
Past with wistful and great
Pleasing and glooming things
Passing since the walls stood
Pumping ancient times
Q U E E N S
Quenching thirsts with too much
Quintessence of belles
Queens never stolen with
Quotations of beauty
Quivering lips while some
Quick blend in royalty
Quitting too when kings die
R O Y A L T Y
Reigning million kings
Relying some on their
Rivals withstanding them
Returning with failure
Royalty falling down
Rivers with their doles or
Raiding other kingdoms
S A C R I F I C E S
Splotches of sacrifice
Sombre sounding some but
Selfless service for else
Serenely chaotic
Shedding blood and tears which
Shepherded joy and the
Stories unforgotten
T A L E S
Tragedies creating
Times eternal with the
Treasures a great tale holds
Trailing to forevers
Telling grace of each one
Traces of merited
Tales of blithesome and gloom
U N I T Y
Uttering about self
Undefeated kings lost
Unities and entwined
Utopian rules with
Unhappiness and who
United lived happy
Unexpectedly here
V A L O U R
Vehemence to fight for
Victories was great and
Valour of emperors
Via wills to ascend
Vivid posts on thrones and
Vigor told in page are
Vague descriptions to walls
W A R R I O R S
Wonder stories of great
Warriors who were then
Woven with powers and
Wisdom bestowed never
Woed for being killed as their
Wills had more importance
Were deprived of being mean
X E N I A
Xeric around with wars
Xenial fill it then
Xians being mortals and
Xenagogue of kindness
Xoanon of their essence
Xesturgy of goodness
Xenodochial gods
Y E A R N I N G S
Yonder from nowadays
Yards of greatness lived there
Yelling screams of immense
Yearnings and cravings of
Youth that they push own souls
Yes, because of their much
Yearnings to ascend posts
Z I L L I O N S
Zillions of people
Zealed to watch the immense
Zestful ancients and
Zoom the cameras to
Zoom the works of greats and
Zannies who were born for
Zapping the graces here
#building #sequinsequences #wod #pod #wnisalive @mirakee
@writersnetwork Thank you, 7th��❤️
And Editor's Choice too? Wow
Inspired by uuuu @the_frozenn_heart
Aaj meri ichha hui��WHAT A CASTLE BE(HOLDS)
©someone_alive -
someone_alive
3w
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#raindrops #wod #similie #lame ok no temp xD
@writersnetwork Thanks a lot for like <3
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.Rainy musings
©someone_alive -
someone_alive
4w
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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.
#shoe #wod #pod #wnisalive
Thanks, 6th one @writersnetworkUnwritten Shoe
©someone_alive -
Wall Crafts of a Wallflower
Silent corners enwreathed with verdant musings around
Where was sitting bystander named 'wallflower'
Sound of his breaths filling vacancy of corners
He hung heaps of soothing thoughts in walls of anxiety
He blew bubbles of metaphors in air of tranquility
Blooming hues of solitude splashed on frames of chaos
Forgotten grieves dripped down walls of gaiety
Dullness of gaudy noises was stitched by real shining stars
When folks called him decent, little did they know,
He wasn't a flower to wilt chafed in tumults
But, was drunk and high in his own world.
©someone_alive -
Didu
She scribbles unfathomed depth of words,
With connotation of heartfelt beauty.
Unadored iota of words bleed,
Glistening peculiarities unheard in her diary.
She paints shining stars,
In dull grey skies draped with mists.
Her heart utters bitterly sweet truths,
With mysterious soul of poetry.
She shapes her allegories in shallow,
Which steal gasps of astonishment.
Like moon's white shimmers in,
Black folded waves of ocean.
She inks one liners which are enough,
To fill the blank page with profundity.
The same manner as depth of blackness,
Is poured in emptiness of open space.
©someone_alive -
someone_alive
5w
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Too long. U can also only read ur favourite month and skip rest :)
@u_star here's ur tag <3
@marmoris no temp! Thank you so much��
#pod #wnisalive #sequinsequences
@writersnetwork thanks a lot for everything. Corrections, suggestions, and at last, the 5th repost! Means a lot��A Writer's Year
January~
Beginning from where the numbness and cold falls a bit from it's highest notch to coziness— A fine shimmering night when the silky sapphire moonlight beams and stars bestow clear scintillas of shine to ocean water. Wisps of freezing winds make tranquil chaos. I trap the shivery musings from around in my heart, watching still trees with arms spread in the bleak sky. These musings are then exhaled in my diary pages, coherent with little of mist, and trust me, the warmth wafts around as I pen my words. I consider it as a writer's way of exhaling numbness away.
~February~
The sole winter month for a stroll is here, when the fog sits aside and lucidity eventually touches Mother Nature. I walk around wrapped up in a warm muffler and a cap. The cold sighs now melt as the gloom of Nature gets away. Trees finally bowing as their stiffness is moving. Seems as wind whispers them secrets which I overhear, and then apprise my diaries too. They tell the health of nature, as it's recovery ambles, and trees keep releasing the coldness with relief.
~March~
Melancholy paving it's way to next year, finally drifts away with winter. Blissful air has replaced freezing winds scattering laments allwhere. The freshness blossoms again and Mother Earth dances with ladybugs, beetles and butterflies. Nature splashes it's all colours and moods in the sky and brings lores and fantasies in reality. As the environment gleams with happiness, flowers show in my pages too. They sway like all hues of the world are bulged in one binding.
~April~
Cherry Blossoms are filling the open sky. A clear weather slightly tilted to summer. Days have aged night slumbers lately. Smooth zephyrs blow, but April showers are too on their ways making the surroundings a pleasant musing. The chilling words and phrases content the thirst of empty diaries like the showers cool down the slight of summer. And April too is then comparable with my secret pages.
~May~
Days have began to wake up early and dark sleeps a lot these days. Nature craves to paint yellow in the skies and send the blackness away with chills. Yet the pleasant fresh springtime is still healing the numbness of winters... It will still cost a month to make the feelings yellow. I plant some irises on my barren page, collecting the weather from around. Irises holding depth of hues and moods in petals, which when wither, fall on my pages.
~June~
Shades of yellow now spread across the clear skies, aubades are sung early by birds. Dawns touch the dullness before time. And jolly summer is now scattering fun and cheerful colours— Orange tinges piercing through Yellow. The blushing Sun, melts late in the coves and hours of dusks decrease. My mood has swung to happy rhymes which I cage in diaries. When released in winters, smell as summer warm zephyrs.
~July~
Raging monsoon after burning summer arrives. Light showers of Mother drench the Earth with daubs of summer hues. The Sun blazes from behind the clouds which thunder, like Nature hollering miseries to Earth. And a beautiful rainbow after shrieks and a little warmth blossoms in the sky. I catch the vibgyor to bestrew the seven sheets of rainbow and paint my diaries with paradox of light drops trapped in sunshine.
~August~
The Summer is now to pass away with it's last month, which will reborn, after euphoria will again strike Nature's Heart and darkness will be small, as warmth cannot bear numbness of their Mother, and watch her suffer with stiffness and stillness. Rain and anguish of Nature thrives and Earth is drenched more in blue tears. As the happiness is bidding an adieu till the next year, I weave eulogies with beads of words mourning for warm vibes, echoing in pages bound in hard cover.
~September~
The sky turns blue muffled with dark clouds which groan at the ground and burst out with tears. The mellow yellowness has bled as Mother breathes the blue agony. The falling raindrops sing gloomy ditties and folks enjoy it's petrichors. The brevity of my poems becomes blurry and hazy as the Mother Earth's heart does, and I write vague quotes to hold the broken pieces of Nature.
~October~
Fall has started to show more than before. Mother's ringlets of calm zephyrs tangle in braids with leaves and their rustling echoes. Reminiscence of tears have risen and season of writers is here. Autumn, the smell of memories wafts in the Nature with bit of stiffness, a little Winter fog with Autumn is here. My diary sniffs that aroma of memories and secures it secretly in cage of pages, with a little sadness and bass of winds.
~November~
After tears of Nature had frozen, the laments are getting dense day by day, month by month. The zephyrs have tangled stronger and now robust and brisk winds blow, and coldness of sighs is allwhere. Maples and Hickories fall with contemporary moves and shivers of winter. I take these Autumn leaves as a souvenir of Autumn and gift it to my diaries, with cold epitaphs of fallen leaves. Leaves which now serve as a bookmark.
~December~
Raw December bestows hoar frosts of stillness, to leaves which were viridescent, but now living in ados as the Nature does. And as the Sun with it's light mosey under the crown of dusk, dreariness of darkness rules for hours. I sit in quilts with metaphors beside, when "Frost" is the only Warmth, with my saved one of summer. My pen scribbles stiffness of outside, stuffed with snow flowers and flakes. And I don't wait till the Mother's heart thaws from cold moon to scorching Sun again, for the embers of December have their own sole warmth.
A Writer breathes every moment and his musings for around don't age. We know, our Mother's secrets, even though she never apprises, we hath hearkened her heart.
©someone_alive -
Catchy Song
You are like a song,
Winging with high vibes as
Sopranos of bellowing crows and
Your heart throbbing as
Rippling beat of pounding waves.
You are like a song,
Tranquil as bass of ringlets
Of zephyrs making palmettos
Like me to bow with the flow.
You are like a song,
Born everyday with clarity
Of aubades with dawns and
Ending as souvenir of beloved
With serenades of dusks,
Who defines entity of true love.
You are like a song,
Gloomed with doom,
Mentioned even on parched lips,
Of ones on whom abyss of
Tragedies have befallen.
You are like a song,
With lyrics of divine hymns,
One day vanished with cremation,
Of your own coffin.
You WERE like a song,
When others are two.
©someone_alive -
Crying is NOT Dying
Ever they apprised?
Ether isn't for evermore the sky's epithet
For the woes cloak it's luster too
As clouds for dribbling drops of blues.
Ever they apprised?
The Earth's not always tough to endure
And cracks to show crevices too
During raging quakes like you do.
Ever they apprised?
Scintillating gloom in eyes
And veiling cheeks with wetness,
Won't leave splotches in hopes.
Ever they apprised?
Tears don't worn-out,
Neither in oozing out hollers
Or laughing about lame jests.
Ever they apprised?
Laments age too
And grow more to be hidden
In plumes of smoke or little sighs.
©someone_alive
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lovenotes_from_carolyn
1w
Read MoreThis 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. ♥️
#writersnetwork #mirakee #mywordsTHE CALL
by Carolyn Glackin
I heard the call so I showed up.
Eyes blazing, heart glowing, spirit strong and ready.
The voices of the people filled my ears, overflowed in my heart, tumbled relentlessly through my mind.
Anger jabbed me from all angles like the sharpest knife.
Fear stole my breath and nearly suffocated me.
Sadness burned all through me and tried to leave me hollow and aching, desperate and alone.
Hatred, the worst of all, lied to me.
Told me everyone was against me.
Told me to trust no one.
Told me anything appearing different was unacceptable.
Constantly taunted me and whispered in my ear and did all it could to drive me mad.
But it didn't.
Because I remembered that I'm made of better things.
I remembered that there is no room for anger, fear, sadness, or hatred in an empowered mind or in a heart that constantly overflows with love.
So, I went to the top of the highest mountain.
I spread my wings.
I stood tall, proud, strong.
I gathered the largest breath that I could muster.
I stared down into the dark void.
And from the depths of my soul I released all of the darkness into the ethers by shouting out a loud and resounding "Nooooooooooo..."
Then, all was quiet and still.
There was a holy reverence all around me.
And I knew then that I was ready and that I'd always answer the call.
That I'd always show up for all people.
That I'd do everything in my power to keep them safe in my heart and remind them of who we are.
So I do that.
To the best of my ability.
For you.
For me.
For LOVE.
Copyright Carolyn Glackin 11/12/2016 -
ladysag77
1w
Read MoreLet love guide you, radiating Light's purity from the inside out ��
#starseed #childrenofthelight #radiatelight #radiatelove #destiny #loveandlight #higherconciousness #highvibrationalbeingsoflight #vibes #lovevibration #highvibes #innerwork #soulwork #soulhealing #spiritualwarrior #spiritualpoetry #liveyourtruth #spirituality #spiritualjourney #writingcommunity #writersnetwork #writinglife #spiritualwriting #spiritualwriter #empath #shaman #feelings #feelthelove #feeltoheal #originalpoemInner landscape
Breaking free from societal chains
Standing firmly in my truth and power to gain
Freedom is a birthright, sparking passions to grow
Bringing Light into focus, allowing soul essence to glow
My heart begins to soar reaching higher altitudes of flight
Effortlessly I travel towards my destiny, future is Illuminated and bright
No longer second guessing in which direction feels right
Intuitively knowing the path that leads to salvation
Nourishing and cultivating the garden of my inner landscape
Bears fruits so bountiful and colorful flower bouquets
Giving love to my soul carries me all the way
©ladysag77 -
amsterdam
1w
Read MoreFebruary 21, 2021
7: 55 PM Sunday
Dear Diary,
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?
©amsterdam
02. 21. 21
#diaryentry
thanks @writersnetwork !����❤✨.
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tamanna3
1w
Read MoreRunning a fever, but #diaryentry #wod made me scribble something I had in mind for a long time.
@writersnetwork I'm.. so glad :') thank you♥️21.02.2021
I had many companions until now, which go by the name of diaries. I had my first one, when I was six, just because I heard someone talk about it, and thought diary writing must really be something cool that adults do. So I wanted to try it as well. I got my first diary and started writing, but ended up tearing down page after page, because I was dissatisfied with what I wrote. The six year old me believed there must be some well defined criterion for so called good diary writing as such.
As years passed, my attempts to jot down my days' happenings ultimately gave way to penning poetries when I first heard a song I fell in love with. And that was around the year I celebrated my 12th birthday. So my first favorite song gave birth to a poem, the title of which still disconcerts me as to why a 12 year old would think of emptiness.
So I completed schooling, entered college, and by that time, realised I wasn't much into diaries. Maybe because life started getting complicated or ironically 'normal' and childhood cravings for chocolates and video games gave way to getting in shape, looking prettier and what not. I also realized diaries could give away your secrets, much like human companions that let you down verbally while your diary, by virtue of its immovability, lets itself free to be opened by random hands and exposes much of all your blue nights and pink days just like that.
I ended up burning tens of them. I also gave up on songs, so they won't trigger the person I was growing out of, to sustain itself in me. As I grew up, I started keeping thoughts more to myself and conditioned myself to live alike the herd- febrile thoughts, cultured inside a healthy mind. I learned and relearned my personalities, getting confused everytime about which one to wear for a Monday morning and which to leave behind for a Saturday night.
Another three years passed, and I realised I had been wrong this whole time. Burning down my diaries, I killed the person I had tried preserving in its pages, for oneday, I took down the glasses I was gifted on my twelfth birthday and looked up at the mirror to see someone I couldn't recognise. Who was the person that looked like me but wasn't me, and I wanted to run away from her, for..she scared me.
Another three years have passed. I haven't yet started writing a diary again, but I am no longer the person I was scared of in the mirror. I'm still trying, falling down and getting up again, but I'm growing to re-become the person I gave up on, for that was who led me on, to redefine the criteria this world had set for me. Today, as I'm running a fever, trying to jot down what I'd, if I were writing a diary today, I realize each diary I've written until now, whether burnt or unburnt, whether who let me down or who preserved my previous selves, had somehow stayed with me. I still remember in bits and pieces, the first poem I wrote, the first song I fell in love with, and the first time I wanted a diary because I thought it'd be a cool thing. I don't know if I'll ever write a diary again, but I do know, I'll not let myself down anymore. I won't burn down again, the paths that trace back to my old home, for that is where my heart is, and that's where, I'll be myself again.
©tamanna3 -
laus_deo
1w
Read More21st February, 2021
8:00 p.m.
Dear Diary,
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.
-Aditi
#diaryentry #wod
Thank you so much @writersnetwork :")♡.
-
sangfroid_soul
1w
Read More#sijo #sangwn 27 O_o heart attack.
Just because you asked @poeticgirl
�� Bye.A, lie
A life
Alivethe first line gasps for breath, loves self blame, drowns in jealousy, compares with other
the second line is neutral, is done running the rat race, blame game and cheating
the third line lives life, in loss, in gain, analyses and smiles often under the blue sky
©sangfroid_soul -
Wrong
I was wrong,
When i waited and waited on the bus stop,
all the buses passed, but i stayed till end..
I was wrong,
when in spite of taking break, i kept on and on.. Without food and water.. Incessant..
I was wrong,
To talk to them, who already claimed to have seen that bus,
So i stayed at the bench in the park..
I was wrong,
To not call, but get ill in that stormy night to make appointment with the doctor next day..
I was wrong,
To listen to the passerby, when all they knew was that bus i never found..
I was wrong,
To not give the luggage but carry on my own. Just to drain sweats that remained unpaid .
I was wrong
To not go to the pubs, drink whiskey or play with girlfriends ..
.. But chose to get to the doorsteps to be thrown out..
I was wrong.,
To chase the bus which left me every day, refused to give me the ride.. When everyone mocked..
I was wrong,
To get to the bus, which rode on the uncommon spring,
i cry, cry and cried,
To be wrong in every single ways...
I was wrong,
To them, to that,
But all the way,
Never to the bus.
When everyone proved me wrong,
That day i won.
©mellifluous_soul -
sequins
1w
Midwestern massacre for rebels who are right
This poem is brave
Where we run down the streets
Our feet bare and currents undressed
To fresh gasoline,
Here rafters spreading against quivering rail tracks
Don't end up in accidents,
Scar-dyed conflicts don't rise to clamors against cinnamon breath.
We run and we collide
With childlike errors carved into our bones
No gallows to slit apart throats.
This is the poem where kids
Can chain smoke adjectives
Not to be questioned
By mothers who deem that
Poets breathe in the wrong way.
Where frost filled stomachs and soft flesh
Won't flash like red lights
Because you're allowed to be silvery
While atoms jilt out of blue shards and hoax honeyed nights.
This poem is a concrete foundation
It's walls all lined with human innocence
Here we can dream in scarlet red
With fragile haloes and lilac branches
A skeptic story in fractured patterns
Of silken silence over split knuckles
But we hold it against the crowd;
This poem doesn't see the color dripping
From that girl's skin
Or the sexuality that oils that boy's lips
S(h)e can shout and tell the earth
No cameras will be flashed into faces
No rumors will be flushed into mouths
No fingers will be pointed
Even if he holds his hands at the highway.
This poem is a September fence
Painted in dandelion seeds and pistachio shells,
Sirens beep until the church bell rings
Hearts clench till pearls find their way back into the sea.
In this poem, we are bluebirds
Fleeing into juliet roses;
Our skin reeking of chlorine
Fresh from the pools.
In this poem, October got steel teeth
Painting oaks in tangerine.
We are allowed to have darker freckles;
While holographic laughters converse
Over iced cappuccinos.
Maybe a touch of a naked vision or two
None to gossip over our body shapes
No one to bend us out of places.
©sequins -
san_wordzz
1w
Read MoreWhat? 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❤❤
#sijo #mirakee #writersnetwork #ceesreposts #wod #pod
@mirakee @writersnetwork.
-
_firefly
1w
Read MoreDear hidden me,
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.
With sincere gratitude,
Yours mate firefly
@writersbay thank you for this wonderful prompt.
#ltselfc
Lines on the background are from the song "beginning middle end"
And I humbly take the background credits./Sometimes, it’s hard to see what the future holds
And most times, it feels like a steep climb, and that’s alright/
