Mirakee
I see my every single poetry
very clearly
On the wall
Waiting to rhyme
Waiting for the feels
But oh
It was already happening
Beneath the lights
Resides the darkness
An empty hall
Filled with so many
Feelings.
©writingislove__
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Finding immortality in words
In poems...
Oh, how can I be so dumb
To realise
That my immortal world
Started...
Since the day his name
Started to rhyme in
My each poems..
-Krishna.
©writingislove__ -
Some poetry rhymes
While some chimes
Some poetry carries metaphor
While mine adores you.
©writingislove__
-Krisna. -
writingislove__
62w
Read MoreHe is that cold breeze of summer which is rare to be find. ˘⌣˘
#writernetwork #mirakee #pod #deepuDiFeeling this connected with him is reliving
Im not sure, if I can represent all of him through words
Words will do no justice to him
His smile, oh what a heavenly smile it is
I cannot put in writing enough about it
He is soothing as lyrics of my favourite song
His eyes are as deep as well and as beautiful as sky
He is that cold breeze of summer which is rare to be found
He is that fume of hot tea that one craves for
He is serenity, he is solace
He is the one you'll get to see in my each poem from now on.
He is luv.
~Krisna.
©writingislove__ -
Heavely sin of his eye and my heart.
©writingislove__ -
writingislove__
70w
He showed me charismatic sights beneath the mask.
©writingislove__
-Krishna. -
writingislove__
80w
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I am sitting under the moonlight
Trying to feel the warmth
No, not feeling the warmth, unable to defeat this cold heart
Even the tears can’t help to warm up
The Moon is starting to fade
No, no it can’t fade yet
But it is, within the clouds
Maybe, it was trying to fetch my warmth
But oh, anyway its fading.
©writingislove__
-Krishna. -
I am a leaf
Waiting for the swirl
Searching for a twig
Where I can wilt
Where my vein weakens
Where autumn blooms.
©writingislove__
-Krishna. -
writingislove__
99w
Read More
A bunch of feelings!?
#pod #feelings @writersnetwork #mirakee #readwriteunite #you #poem #feelingsA bunch of feelings.
Last time I promised to not feel
Although I couldn’t stop feeling
After all, writing comes with thousands of f e e l i n g s.
People asked me to avoid writing sad
How would they know?
Because writing sad makes me more alive than the whole ‘Happy fine’ poem.
Last time I promised not to cry
Although I couldn’t stop
Because crying is the most alive feeing which cannot be denied.
People asked me to face my fears
How would I?
Because facing them means avoiding YOU and avoiding YOU means avoiding writing. ;)
-Krishna.
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thoughtsprocess
16w
Words of hope
are like the dawn
at midnight
©thoughtsprocess -
If words had wings
Every morning, as the sun peaks though my window, I bundle down a heap of lost hope, conceal it under my pillow and pretend to sleep. As the day goes bleaker I get up from my bed, wrap a cloak of responsibilty around myself and step out, cause I have to.
This world is a cage, where most birds are born without wings and the rest are just too scared to fly.
I am one of those birds, I am sure most of us are.
We are all made to swim in a puddle of expections and conjecture while we were meant to fly in that azure sky.
Cafes, book stores or the metro, wherever I go, I see a heap of happy souls who are happy because they need to be. I stand in the corner and gaze at them for a while, sometimes. What is it they have, that I lack? I ask myself. Is their cotton less shabby? Or their huts are more warm? Or may be they simply have found a therapy for themselves.
Some of them paint their fences blue, and stroke those cottony clouds with thier brush. They paint their own sky. While some sing themselves a lullaby every time the night gets colder. It helps them sleep.
And then there are people like us, who write. We write, because in our fictions we can be everything we failed to be, we can do everything we always wanted to do, with people we have always wanted to have. We write poems, because it is the only place where we can lend ourselves an infinite sky.
In between our stanzas we are free to fly, we can communicate through the idioms. But, if words had wings, may be we writers would never write.
©thewordplayer -
paintdrops
44w
Read MoreREVIVAL
I like the smell of old rustic pages
Adorned with glossy covers
And colourful bookmarks
Its strange
The bond I share
With something so lifeless
A connection
That never seems to stay
With the people in my life
Lying on bookshelves
Waiting a read
I love imagining myself
In stories I’ll never live
I’ve cried many a times
Sometimes gasped
Sometimes laughed
Maybe
That’s what happiness feels like
Coffee stains on my desk
Red eyes as I spend my whole night
Trying to finish what I started
Makes me feel home
And yet so lost
In the bustle
The guilt I feel
Leaving a book unread
And the closure I get
Years later
When I finally pick it up again
It’s irreplaceable
While as a kid
We were made to spend weeks
Trying to read between the lines
The truth is
Sometimes
You just need to enjoy things as they are
They lied
When they said
You’d become a new person
Just by reading a single book
How do you learn
If you never feel it
Never try it
Never live it
And though I’ve spent hours
Foraging bookshelves
The difference I felt
Was just an illusion
Because I was always reading
Exactly what they told me to
©paintdrops
#writersnetwork #mirakee.
-
_delta
45w
Read Moreso perfect
this precious daughter
oh how you loved her
brilliant
sweet
girl
and she grew into
your own image
the highest standards
the best grades
perfectly innocent
and well behaved
this precious girl
you called daughter
-
then the flow
the sang in the sweater
you had perfectly knit
a blemish
on the face of the
porcelain doll
you immaculately created
-
blessed she was
this fallen angel
thrown down from the sky
yet you meted out her punishment
for what was already
punishment enough
the villain
was the victim
and the crime
couldn't be forgiven
-
and however grotesque
and vile
your judgement
your indignation
the cruelty of your criticism
somehow
part of her
took to heart
blemished
tarnished
and it was
all her fault
-
and the second worse thing
to the illness
was the way
you changed how
she saw herself
and how
it took her decades
of self -accusations
and regret
for how she unwillingly
changed into this
dirty
irredeemable
wingless thing
until she realised
it wasn't her fault
the abandonment
the broken pieces
that she can't pluck from
her chest
-
people are imperfect
and
imperfection is
too hard
to love
and too painful to watch
and yes
I'm imperfect
vulnerable to sickness
like everyone else
but
you are
weak
and wrong
and I'm
strong
resilient
I have to be
because I will be
forever recovering
from the illness
and the fact
you love
perfection
not me.
Thanks for the kind repost @mirakee ♡ @writersnetwork ♡Dirt on my wing
-
.
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alifiyatahir
54w
your eyes
vessels
reflecting the expanses of the sky
i am holding a brush
i refuse to let go
a palette of greens reds and blues
made in the company of you
beginning from you
ending at you
©alifiyatahir -
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Too Strong
I don't know if it's weird but when someone asks me where am I from or who I am, I take a moment to reply to because I am still contemplating if am really at a place or really a person I used to be. The place isn't the same anymore neither is me. I don't even know which part of myself lives where I live now and which part is still sabotaged somewhere else. I have lived partly here and there, and everywhere, partly haven't lived at all. I'm from the city my forgotten and torn birth certificate talks about but I know nothing about the places in it. They often ask me, "Why don't you talk?" "Why don't you reply?" because "no one is busy the entire day". That I always leave messages seen and overlooked, that I don't pay attention to what was being sent, that I don't care anymore. Trust me, I pay attention to everything anyone sends me, I read and reread things. I write things, a lot of them and I can write a book on anything and everything too with the sorta imagery and an overflow of abundant emotions all the time but now, I can only write, I can no more "say". I don't know what to say, what to reply because at the back of my head I know I feel nothing. It's like I have been shutoff since years like Tarzan in the jungles away from the buzzing citylife. There's a hollow, a big one, straight through my heart and all that passes through it is silence. It doesn't even feel heavy, it's just silent, a part of me that is functionless. I laugh a lot, you know, a lot more than others because I hate to let the echoes of others laughing at me, buzz my ears. I make so much noise so that I hear nothing. I don't know what to reply, when to reply, how to reply because when I did, every paragraph, I wrote for them, about how much I needed them then, no one listened. I wasn't writing then, I was "saying", "telling" , "explaining" and "feeling" everything they wanted me to. I felt too much of what I could feel for the world. Now, it's just papers and papers to feel in my hands. I had a lot to talk about then, about things I hadn't done, about things I barely knew what they meant other than cold faces. I just needed to be heard, once and after that I just wanted to ask "why?" "why me?" All that I remained, were questions. Then slowly questions faded, so did I. I was very talkative guys. You should have met me before. I promise I'd have been a better company unlike now, when I suck at interactions because I push people away like places push away passengers from residents.
Of course, no-one is busy the entire day. I work for a fourteen, the maximum but I don't feel idle. I feel occupied all the time. Sometimes I just sit and listen to music the entire day, on holidays. I know it takes a minute to respond. I have known this more than you, ever since but I have forgotten to converse. It just costed few seconds I know then, to just ask me, once, how was I? I was dying to answer then how terrible I was. I was dying to answer, many times and wanted to keep telling, "don't do this please, I barely know what your grudges are because friends never hold grudges." I swear I would have forgiven everyone if I deserved all of that. Even if I didn't, I just loved to forgive then. I just needed a response back then to not feel so aversed towards talks now, to feel a bit of my older self which I don't. I'm just too strong now.
Now, if anyone asks "how's you?" I just smile because I am not dying to answer.
©Sagarika, Too strong to fall back
©thesagarikawrites -
theuglyink
48w
Transition
At what stage
Do we believe
That we are old enough
Or rather that
Our senses of maturity
Have claimed themselves
In our hormones?
Does maturity mean
That we are able to tell
Right from wrong
At all times?
Or is it when
We are able to live
With our mistakes
As memories
And learn to repeat them
Without the mistake itself?
Today,
Thousands of mistakes
Are buried in my palms-
In a few tomorrows
I'll become 'legal',
Can I cherish my childhood
As I claim as an adult,
Will I even behave
A few degrees more
Than a child?
Can my heart
Become hardened so quickly,
So that it will not shatter on reality?
- and when did the others leave,
With the pair of goggles they blinded me with,
Do I now have to face the world
And politics with my own eyes?
-theuglyink
