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  • zohiii 1h

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  • zohiii 1d

    ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪʀᴛʜᴅᴀʏ ᴇɴᴅs

    Presents were stacked up, wrapped in glittery covers, against the pastel blue walls of my freshly painted room; pastries were decorated on the round teak table, along with precious crockery of china and porcelain; people were buzzing and giggling.

    Though, an inconsistently intoned humming was all that could be heard and chaos was utterly visible, happiness resonated throughout the place; it was the moment that one dreams of day and night, when they demand nothing less and nothing more but embrace what has been bestowed upon them.

    In those couple of hours, I believed paradise to be that place filled up with presents, pastries and people, but then sounded the knell for the euphoria when midnight struck in grandpa's olden, heavy timekeeper.

    As the ding-dong echoed, it hushed all the voices in every corner of the room. One by one, everyone crossed the threshold and I constantly urged them to stay but their defiance ignored my presence; I was fading.

    Not so long ago, I sat on the helm of happiness, and then in a snap, I didn't exist.

    Crumbs of cake were scattered aloof on the table, the tattered gift-wrapping papers were lying all across the floor and the presents held no excitement anymore; footsteps were imprinted on the marble tiles and the ticking of the clock was all that could be heard.

    I felt betrayed, because I was promised happiness and acceptance but for a short while.

    I find myself standing on the middle ground when I argue if it's the fickleness or warmth of the heart when people gather around and celebrate pompously that you were born, but no one seems to be concerned about how you live.

    A day you're loved and sought out, but other days you're abandoned with your aloofness.

    It was my mischief to have forgotten how fortune is like sand in a closed fist and every attempt to clasp onto it harder, spills it out more. You can never get hold of it.

    It fetched me with the knowledge that peering for peace in people would always be in vain.

    I resolved to not let "my special day" envelope me in a sugary facade next year, for people become forgotten faces, and the frenzy becomes dormant; you fade away into the everlasting humdrum.

    Whether you live or you die or you live dying, not a soul cares until the day dawns again.

    Ugly truths are shed light upon, love becomes a mongrel abomination, and you slowly disappear into nothingness, when the birthday ends.

    ©zohiii
    ___________________________________________________

    @writersnetwork you have your ways of making me love you, don't you? Thank you so much for the repost!

    @rain I know I messed up, I apologise. But thank you for this prompt.

    @shashagilbert_ @eurus I love you both.

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  • zohiii 2d

    I realised today that my rhyming sequence has changed drastically.

    "You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane"
    ©Roger Waters

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    ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴇɢᴀʟ ᴋɪʟʟɪɴɢ

    I tread warily on the charred road,
    And you exclaim it leads to heaven!
    Then, why plays a melancholic ode,
    And it's edges seem blood woven.

    I prod and shout at the brutal sight,
    But you shush and lull my protests;
    You order me to ignore the plight,
    But discreetly, these rules I detest.

    I feel smothered by your standards,
    And whenever I attempt to break free,
    You allure me back with false words,
    Cause to the multitude 'tis a decree.

    Dear society, I see into your bones,
    And they reek of malice invisible;
    The road echoes of lost ones' mourns,
    Still, all decide to ignore what's visible.

    I don't accept to abide by your sanity:
    An instrument of your supremacy;
    In my actions you declare malignity,
    And my words, conveyers of fallacy.

    You dismantle my so-called insanity:
    You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane;
    One more victimised of your cruelty,
    With numbed sense, I walk again.

    No thoughts of mine belong to me,
    I well up with the lies that you feed;
    To follow blindly sans hopes free,
    To seek the rules even when to bleed.

    ©zohiii

  • zohiii 2d

    ⓌⒽⒺⓃ ⓈⒽⒺ...!

    I do believe
    carcasses breathe
    again; lifeless
    and fuming
    but tender words,
    manifest into
    forgotten and imaginary
    beings with a pulse,
    emotions and
    memories,
    when she writes.

    I do believe
    all the
    euphonious
    melodies are but
    charmless trifles,
    and the sound
    of rain after a
    scorching
    summer
    day is her voice,
    when she speaks.

    I do believe
    happiness is her
    bosom friend,
    who sits on the
    tip of her tongue,
    waiting to resonate
    far and wide,
    in the bones of
    passers-by;
    bloom smiles galore,
    when she giggles.

    I do believe
    the thunderstorms,
    are a phenomenon
    closely inspired
    from her,
    cause everything
    feels being
    uprooted,
    when she weeps.

    I do believe
    I'm a warrior in her
    battles of every day,
    and no war I wage
    could I ever lose,
    until she exists
    to heave my
    sword again,
    when it touches
    the ground;
    sometimes she soaks
    fear with
    her fierce eyes,
    other times my
    abating spirits
    are replenished,
    when she roars.

    I do believe
    if I have a home,
    it's in the entangled
    mess that her
    dark brown
    locks are;
    not in a thousand
    years, could I
    forget or lose my path,
    for she never lets me,
    when she calls my name.

    I do believe,
    that she isn't a
    mere mortal like me,
    but a rare miracle;
    peace is her silhouette
    and calmness her
    breath; she's beyond
    the vows of truth and
    unjust, and it sends
    shivers down my spine
    to think of the day
    of my collapse,
    from head to toe,
    when she'd bid me goodbye.

    ©zohiii
    ___________________________________________________

    Dedicated to someone.

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  • zohiii 3d

    ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛʜᴇ sᴜɴ ʀɪsᴇ ғᴏʀ ᴍᴇ?

    In the sheen of the night,
    I seek the shore side again,
    To bury the recorded time,
    And that yet to be recorded.

    I run amok the streets,
    With rekindled spirits;

    For tonight,
    Tonight will be my only now.

    Sans desires for the dawn,
    Under the star-frothed sky,
    I gasp for breath;
    Tracing the bricked walls,
    Cemented with happiness.

    Naked is my attire,
    As I toss away the tedious fit,
    And trace the tiled lanes
    With feather-like steps;
    I have nothing to chase.

    The brevity of night threatens,
    But who says I'll see the sun?
    Maybe this is all I have,
    And all I will have.
    So why waste it waiting;
    Waiting for the light to arise!

    I steal a pinch of stardust,
    And smear it over my filthy self;
    Singing love songs all alone,
    To hear them echo back to me;
    I shout on the top of my voice,
    Without any regrets,
    Yearnings,
    Or shape-shifting dreams.

    Who says,
    A million nights await me?

    So I live like a zillion in one;
    Nay, I won't mourn the morn,
    Because I know not if I'll see it,
    But the sparkling night,
    Chaperones me in this moment.

    With shortness of breath,
    Elated spirits,
    And liberated thoughts,
    I pace towards the shoreline,
    With my eyes closed,
    And a thumping heart;

    While with hopes and fixtures
    Of morrow,
    Perishable souls sleep,
    In sobbing slumbers,
    A speck of doubt lingers,
    On their ignorant selves,
    That
    the
    night
    is
    everlasting.

    In the sheen of the night,
    Live freely,
    as if yesterdays don't exist,
    And futures don't too,
    As if it's the last time.

    Who says,
    You have forever?

    Mayhaps, forever will outlive us;
    Instead of a dreary deception,
    And the facade of forever,
    Embrace your now,
    And it'll embrace you.

    ©zohiii
    ___________________________________________________

    In this poem, the poet turns insane!

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  • zohiii 4d

    "The Watcher's Gaze"

    An autobiography of a lamppost. (maybe?)

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    ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀᴛᴄʜᴇʀ's ɢᴀᴢᴇ

    "... throughout these years, I've yearned to be a part of the anecdotes that the breathing ones recite to one another with alluring facial expressions and mellifluous voices; sometimes they end up with mirthful giggles, and other times they plunge into states of deep gravity. In retrospect, as I contemplate now, I feel the warmth surging through me due to the epiphany that I've been a vital part of their lives since forever, deliberately and accidentally. But I've always been in their stories as the lamppost of the forgotten street..."

    Six years ago, on a bright day teeming with yellow sunshine, was my first interaction with everything. When I realised I could feel, I felt breathless in the trunk of a loading truck. A few hours of travelling led me to a town with a distinct aroma that birthed the sense of belonging in me. I felt emotional. Soon, I was deeply rooted in the cemented ground. And then my expedition began.

    I have withstood storms, and have had the privilege of witnessing many seasons: snowy and windy winters, tranquil and scorching summers, bewitching and rampant rains, rejuvenating springs and shedding autumns. I recall each year and season with connections they brought for me, experiences I cherish to this date.

    The threads of my memory are loosening with every passing moment, and my light flickers evermore. But before there's nothing left of me, I wish to intone some of my fondest tales to you.

    Rose was a sweet child who could be seen wearing pretty dresses. She used to visit me often in the second autumn of my lifespan; sitting on my pedestal, she'd read letters and sometimes write them too. Whenever I saw her crying while sitting underneath my shadow, it appeared that monsoons made way earlier. My restless thoughts urged me to wipe her tears but a stagnant structure disallowed anyways. Sometimes, she'd hug me and those were the warmest hugs; it looked as if summers lost the course of time as well. Little Rose imparted seasons with every gasp of breath, and like every season must depart she had to as well.

    Her father found work in the city so her family had to move. On the morning when she had to leave, Rose visited me and sat on the pedestal in a pastel peach dress in the same loving manner. All that time, her eyes shone as if they sought a particular visage. For the last time, she wrote a letter and left it unguarded within my security. She left without a hug or goodbye.

    A short while later, a young boy visited and collected the letter. And I felt my foundations tremble because he rained in a manner more thunderous than Rose. Apparently, I wasn't the only one deprived of Rose's parting rites. She left us in a chilly winter. I miss Rose.

    Three years ago, it snowed like never before, that's what I heard when the passers-by grumbled with shivering teeth. The light as air dresses were replaced by hefty overcoats and woollen headwears. Anyone could tell that there was a scarcity of people on the roads and why wouldn't there be; families enjoyed warm gathering sessions in front of fireplaces with mugs of hot chocolate clasped by their fingers. But still, there was this one woman who waited patiently under the orange glow of my light that, conspicuously, simmered her surroundings; it is my deepest relief that my lamp was intact back then.

    Every night, she'd pry her eyes towards the highway, in utmost similarity to Rose on her last morning in the town. But no one ever came, except a strong blizzard. The woman did not budge though. It is no one's cup of tea to comprehend what storms rage under serene waters and it neither was mine. Perhaps, she saw the situation as a blessing, rather than mayhem. The blizzard swept away soon, and the woman with heavy steps threw her helpless self on my pedestal. If only I knew what troubled her, and whose touch was she craving!

    It started snowing. A tiny snowflake descended down to her nose and it gave her a moment of numbness. She lifted herself up and disappeared in the dark. I miss her too, not as much as Rose, but I do.

    Since years, I've witnessed laughter, mourning, excitement, sorrow and whatnot. I have seen people strolling to workplaces, schools, and I've overheard them gossiping all about the world. I am transfixed to this spot but I've lived myself as a piece in different lives; while I could ponder over the grief that I never saw it with my own eyes, something tickles me to believe that whatever you see might be a fallacy but whatever you feel is pure.

    Presently, amidst the turmoil and truce of mankind, I've become weaker; rusty bones and wavering light and a foundation certain to collapse. I would probably and preferably be dumped in a junkyard because only the newer poles are melted down and the metal is utilised; they are reborn. But I am neither rife with youthfulness nor am I of any more use to the townsmen. Rumour has it that I'd be replaced by a lamppost operated on solar power. But all of this affects me measly, for I had always urged to make memories and undoubtedly I have them galore.

    When Rose would narrate her story, she'd recall having a heartbreak under my shade, and her lover would always have a tragedy to tell. I'd live in the remnants of the unknown woman's poignant tale; she'd always remember how her dystopic life was accompanied by my warm glow. But even if they won't, I feel contented for having played a supporting role in their lives; the grandeur of having lived in the moment, even if it wasn't mine fills me with electrifying joy.

    One last time, I gaze at it all, without a sign of sorrow, as I pave the way for someone else to occupy a place in this lonesome but breathtaking world.

    I am the lamppost of the forgotten street and I hope they never forget me and my presence for years to come. And even if I may forget my own self, I hope I burn with the same intensity and warmth with every mention of mine in the stories of the breathing ones.

    The pedestal cracks, with my perishable existence, and I try to feign grief and ignorance, but deeper than my foundations ever were, are the memories that sustain and immortalise my being, fetching me with eternal euphoria.

    I was the breathless lamppost but now I breathe in you.

    Goodbye.

    ©zohiii

  • zohiii 5d

    ᴍᴀʀᴄʜ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅs ᴅᴇғᴇᴀᴛ

    I gulped down the muck of slurs,
    Without one wrinkle of disgust;
    An incentive for the murmurs:
    "This young lad will bite the dust!"

    On sultry noons and snowy nights,
    I wake up to walk the road of lies;
    Aye, to a dot betwixt blinding lights,
    And I must hurry for it slowly dies.

    I tread the dark shadows of disdain,
    And walk past gloomy figures,
    Sans hope, from striding they refrain,
    But I must move for my defeat allures.

    Hark, multitude! I may falter forever;
    This "young lad" might bite the dust,
    But he doesn't need fortune's cover;
    There's no fear, to rise against unjust.

    You walk with aspirations of triumph,
    With wilted heads and tattered intent,
    As lifeless shells with hearts numb;
    A pain you carry, like a rotting dent.

    With bruised knees, and wounds red,
    I rise anew, to seek the face of defeat,
    Even if a thousand times I bled,
    A warrior will rise, but he won't forfeit.

    Come what may, whatever you say,
    I'll rise from the wrecks of your creed,
    To achieve victory, when you'd fray,
    Be witness to my march towards defeat.

    ©zohiii
    ___________________________________________________

    I am obsessed with black and white backgrounds.

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  • zohiii 1w

    ᴀ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟ ʀᴇᴠᴏʟᴜᴛɪᴏɴ

    Careless and carefree; there's merely a measly debt you owe to the soil. To pursue the butterfly temperament is your independent decision; soar through the jovial skies, piercing the breeze of captivity, renouncing your confinements.

    A strange voice might not scorn your dance of dissociation but your own; will your wings not shiver out of the mourns of many clipped ones?

    Freedom is your privilege but is it fair for an individual to solely lay claim at, does this not seem inhuman to you, does this cowardice suit you?

    A crime against one human, justice deprived to him, is noted as the defeat of the entire mankind; turning a blind eye towards injustice doesn't eradicate it, but promotes it and indulges you in the act as well. Silence is a stand too and more often labels you as guilty.

    A naked birth can't be altered, but a bare death is shameful; in a lifetime, you stumble upon countless opportunities to clothe yourself; empathy is the robe of honour that immortalises you. Not a thousand silk threads could weave a more elegant dress, than an empathetic fit; it shines in the eyes of the beholder like a veil of hope.

    A human is not one because of flesh and blood but due to his values, sacrifices and rage to not kneel down against suppression and injustice.

    Revolution breathes not when a vessel voices it but with the surge of a sensation of helplessness and sympathy towards people, throughout one's veins.

    Repression could be smelled; it's stirred in the air and the souls who inhale it without a sign of disdain deem unworthy as human.

    Resentment against the slightest acts of apathy must perpetuate until and unless the air you breathe in has the scent of liberty with every zephyr.

    You don't owe this world even a strand of your hair, but a chance to prove yourself human, to cloak yourself, is due. Then maybe you could be more than a human, you could become an idea, a pedestal of change. You owe it to yourself, but the effect and consequences will resonate.

    An empathetic rebel is the most lethal, cause he recognises that there aren't any stakes except humanity to preserve; the people he fights for having lost everything are no more threatened by losses, even the slightest of favourable uproar could result in a triumph.

    It sounds mythical to vanquish someone so unstoppable, someone, who has nothing to lose but dares to claim all that he needs to.

    A revolutionary lives forever, as a paradigm of retaliation and indomitable human spirit; he's buried with a flag of gratefulness. But he leaves his story behind, to spark empathy in the hearts of people, to plan a new revolution.

    Love will be a farce in the multitude that bends its definition to ease itself; empathy would sustain and save this world, for it is felt indiscriminately towards those who deserve it and also the ones that don't and are devoid of it, without any pretence.

    If you feel empathetic towards the pain of at least one life even though momentarily, something in you is burning with fury to retaliate, you are an integral part of the revolution to resurrect and revive humanity, comrade.

    ©zohiii
    ___________________________________________________

    Che Guevara is an inspiration!

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  • zohiii 1w

    ʙɪᴘᴏʟᴀʀ ʜᴜᴇs

    When the iridescent sky eerily descends,
    It shades her maroon lipstick comely;
    I sniff a redolent scent that soothes me
    But a wink tickles to brush it off soon.

    Sitting on the parapets with bright blues,
    I dream of a breeze, to float to the clouds;
    Desires to fly through the translucent blue,
    Turn to paint the char below in blood red.

    Morns I wake up with sun's orange scorch,
    To unfold parables lost in a gloomy world,
    But eventide falls; the dark befalls on me,
    And I write my tragedy in a forlorn corner.

    A few hopeful nights tuck me in my bed,
    To wake me up smeared with shades of life;
    Veneered by a glowing tinge are eventides,
    When I hope to never see the sun again.

    Sometimes, I'm spitting limpid rainbows,
    In the clear horizons of my ugly thoughts,
    But mostly, I'm sinking in the black voids,
    Or soaking them all as a piece of myself.

    ©zohiii

  • zohiii 1w

    Rage
    against the
    kalopsia that
    annihilation veils in;
    redolent, lucid embers,
    burn out soon, leaving
    ash, dust and
    pity.
    ___________________________________________________

    I removed punctuation in the picture, cause it was hindering the aesthetic layout.

    Thankyou so much @writersnetwork for always supporting!

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