Now we have time, the kind we were asking for since forever wrapped in a soft vintage cloth. As for we all have is now, the time to be overjoyous on little things. It's a blithe to observe how the light move through your hair and the dust particles dance around you, hope of new beginnings yearning to belong.
Blithe to realise that your parts still ache for miracles that never die, old rusty papers that still hold the smell of lost time paddling through your memory and embracing each bit of it.
Blithe to know we're flawed, imperfect yet limitless dancing to life in every possible way. Blithe to know we all have a story or poetry buried within us, a beautiful verse of poetry which everyone dreams to write.
Blithe to know we can sense in words that are dark and blue and bright, in words that are perhaps even I shouldn't be writing and you shouldn't be reading.
Blithe to describe someone stories which you read, which makes you a better you, finding peace in your eccentricity. Blithe to reflect yourself on the wonder of aliveness and compose yourself in a poem, weaving ourselves in stories never been told. Nudging those stars as alphabets, tremendous lines and stanzas into the start of forever poetries.
I colour my memories a bright yellow with a pinch of soft yellow, little bit of sparkling yellow and lot more of cool yellow like sun shines bright and brighter yellow with different shades and hues.
Hues like these I embrace in their true brillance, all collected together and written in rhyme with scarlet flame and softer claim.
Claiming in enticing weary feet lemon, tender and pure. Letters dipped in yellow ink, yellow pages of long lost forgotten book with favourable odours.
Odours lightly happy, lightly tipsy. Yellow is for charming smilies, colour of papers that are preserved and cherished and means, to you and me.
Stands hope, bursting with dreams and we were taught to live life in warm yellows, in the warmth of yellow. For reviews of joys we have seen, you are glistening like the colour yellow so bright in the golden light.
Peace wrapped up in white and so hope in warm yellows, vibrant yellows.
Ocean, rivers, streams between the valley and stellar peaks. My soul has arisen astral being, mingling between moon beams.
Can you really capture reality and enslave it depending upon the caprices ?!
I was told fight the reflection in the mirror, or, steal it's identity for a masquerade. The sun heads home to clouds, as nighttime walks up proud.
I wave and greet the flock, who goes home according to the clock. Drifting darkness drawing in visuals fading dramatically mist slowly turning to thick, frothy frog.
With half broken breaths and hallowed mind burning the midnight oil, slowly giving in to the night like the melting candle. I write, A poem of love, A poem of light.
I tend to hold on things that have memories or emotions attached to them like a paperclip. Every alphabet, every word, every line and in every leaf of my diary, moments scream silent uproar, with ear piercing and echoing noise.
Book marking sands of good time, Scenting every moist paper, Moist, not just with the ink but with the flooded eyes.
This sentence which you and I read like multiple times today. I was overflowing trying to pack my words with essential of meaning and intentions.
May be the goodbyes are everything and nothing, Nothing and everything Not enough and too much.
A journey is a period one cuts out of time, a reflection is not pure, a reflection is a fiction that we write of the non-fiction of our lives. And like all journeys, this journey also merge into the cosmic stillness.
// Self portrayed 'democracies' ravage the world and humanity is reforged into a new moon. (No vestige of its existence) // __________________________________ @writersnetwork Thank you:) Tbh it doesn't really matter. Genuine readers always read. I've read many works which are to be appreciated too:( @hidden_sunshine Can't thank you enough.
Day dreaming of Waterfalls Sitting under Apple trees Looking over Miles of evergreens Living in lover's lane On the corner of Happiness and peace White doves Eating from our hands Hearing children's laughter Playing in the water Having tea and scones With my friends Welcoming each one With a warm embrace Freedom is one Daydream away Repeat at night Take care of your mental health
But sweeheart To heal you need to accept, To accept that you deserve peace, space and happiness.
Acceptance will create discomfort Maybe , you will be tempted to deny that there are scars which still hurts a lot.
Healing is not as easy as it spells but it's worth every ounce of pain you have been through
Step wise step This process will cover up all the scars on your soul Don't worry about the marks , they are the symbol of your strength , How beautiful and powerful you have been through this journey of healing.
The pain of this process is like the pain of the labour of a mother who goes through it when she gives birth to a new body , Similarly once you will heal, Like that new born child It will be rebirth of your soul And rejuvenation of your heart.