verbose

Actual people read my words and they care enough about them to tell me this|21|engineer|

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  • verbose 2d

    We feel like we hear their whispers, or smell their presence and many more things. But it's never the whole of them. That is how we keep them in little fragments. That's how they stay for a lifetime even when they're not with us.

    ©verbose

  • verbose 3d

    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.

    -Richa
    31.05.2020

    #writersnetwork #mirakee #pod @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    B L I T H E

  • verbose 1w

    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.

    -Richa

    26.05.2020
    #writersnetwork #pod @writersnetwork @mirakee #colour #wod

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    Y E L L O W

    //happy and contented//

  • verbose 1w

    N O S T A L G I A

    Nostalgia written on ancient story walls like a child wondering over his broken toys, like his lost crayons, like his withered paper crafts.

    Nostalgia spread over face of my grandfather which is constantly reminding him whiffs of scents of moments spent, whiff of lakes of that city on that arrival of summers.

    Nostalgia widespread over an old photoframe reminiscing incoherent thoughts edited, a certain place in the past where a part of you lived and portrayed.

    Nostalgia that unfurled raindrops which left the clouds a long ago and touched the surface with immense kindness and love. Like a vintage film in black n white now playing and colored with imagination of hopes and light.

    Nostalgia good happy city thoughts soul meaning great mustered in shades of vibrant ecstacy, solely of kind of happy thoughts, hues of different shades of love, looking in and romancing with the past.

    Nostalgia of remembering when we spelled things wrong, lifting up the heavy school bags with light hearts, mastered impression with complete and utter spell-binded devotion at the simple familiarity of limited world.

    Everything was hand-lettered then, it was a wonderful time to be alive, or even dead,
    Where people were writing a syllable we cannot imagine, a syllable whose name we can only guess.

    -Richa

  • verbose 2w

    You don't have faith in;

    A person you test,
    A word you write,
    A passion you question,
    A miracle you possess,
    A goal you rethink,
    A place you wander,
    A dream you stifle,
    A craft you conceal.

    Although we all are made of poetry and life. Either we're poets or someone's poetry ! And are still waiting to conceal what isn't yet revealed.

    ©verbose

  • verbose 3w

    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.

    -Richa

    13.05.2020

    #writersnetwork #pod @writersnetwork @mirakee

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    I do still believe in tomorrows with better and more improved todays. I believe, someday you'll recall my name and I'll be getting hiccups for sake of my existence in your memories.

    ©verbose

  • verbose 3w

    I have seen windows
    with cracks running both ways
    like many stones have been thrown.

    Through glass windows,
    You can learn to play the games,
    But never actually join in.

    People say that eyes are window to the soul that belong to ancient homes like stories untold.

    Dust and doom its statement to the world.
    And, sometimes, sun's shine streams through the windows and reaches the soul.

    "Set wide the window. Let your soul drink the day".

    ©verbose

  • verbose 4w

    1.05.2020 ��️

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    Wander amid the mild and mellow light the winds of day drop dead and dreams come home to me.
    Now the sun is sinking
    In the golden west,
    And in the lately radiant west
    The gold is fading into grey, clouds, dimly lighted, gathering slowly..
    Oh, the beauty of a sunset
    Oh,the beauty of it's loveliness.

    ©verbose

  • verbose 5w

    This leads me to ask does a shooting star ever yearn for the places he has never been like the way I long ?!

    And for a moment everything is relative under a happy blue sky in a field of flowering yellow.

    ©verbose

  • verbose 5w

    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.

    -Richa

    29.04.2020
    #pod #writersnetwork

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    But what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye