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  • __ayesha 1w

    Clutching the ground
    she fly upside down
    flustered her love was,
    she bloomed underneath springs.

    Poetry heeled is her sky,
    falls so profound
    moon whispers her soul
    flustered was her quill so,
    is her espoir the night?

    Plaiting her hair with
    sunset's spine she sleeps
    through sunrise. Flustered the
    morning was, her silence ringed
    my absence.

    Ink her, she is a poetry,
    void her pain is
    flustered I was as she sniffs,
    it is not sour, my shoulder?
    still she december her breaths.

    -- Ayesha || Saad


    Sometimes you feel like an unheard symphony, like a feiullemort deprived autumn metaphor, like a scorched dandelion midst the pages of your unread stories and sometimes you feel like you're drowning somewhere between August's repentance and December's callousness. And at the end of ever July, you feel like the sun shined so fiercely on you that the springs is only a glaucous of poetry.

    You chose the darkness that even your night couldn't withstand but then again you worship the poets for gulping up your azure skies. You use your scars as banisters to reach the depth of ink and you use your blood to scintillate the sunsets. And of fidelity, seas and springs, you are a s(in)ombre melody dancing on your own, on the tender tips of happiness.

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  • __ayesha 1w

    Sitting on the
    bathroom floor
    I smoke
    The blades don't
    cut that deep,
    I remorse
    Ashes of marlboro,
    the night's broke
    Skin's blunt the
    scissors don't tear
    I fear, God don't
    want me there
    Death's despair,
    silence's prayer
    brewing sins
    scalding wings
    How many more
    whips on
    my limbs.

    -- Ayesha || clogged sinks and veins

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  • __ayesha 2w

    || Things you said at 3 am ||

    I remember how you talked to that non-existent sarcoline sky under the shallow blue bruise you've got right there on that morsel of self love you have. You said that if you and I were part of same nights then the stars would have held us together much stronger than our different scars do.

    I kept repeating your name till my moon started collapsing. It must be nice, you said, watching the scars on your wrists go blurry eyed. On that summer virginity, you pronounced my name like a poetry then you hammered my heart and clipped the pieces on the one half of your nightskies besides the other half that was worn out because of your ink and placed your moon inside my empty ribcage and stuffed stars inside my scars.

    You said you could see the sunflowers turning towards
    me and that their yellow talks to you about my silence.

    You looked so pretty when sun rose and we were under the same sky, even when I close my eyes you drain out my tears to water your cactuses in spring. You did so until I had nothing to cry for and then I lost you somewhere on the horizon between me and your nightskies.

    -- Ayesha || Saad


    @_no_face_ ( 13 December, 2019)

    "I am my mother's child, I love you till my breathing stops,
    I love you till you call the cops on me. "
    - Lorde

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  • __ayesha 2w

    || Words ||

    Isn't it beautiful, writting for someone or maybe being written by someone? I wish to exist as words. Sun is at its finest when the letters bind themselves together with rhythms to be a single melody and when all these words fathom into poetry, a young sky is lifted up to carry all your blues aloof.

    We all are surrounded by letters and the way we tie them defines us of how we want the pages to be. All the pages that I have are unruled and the words are just strewed on them, I seem to have everything scattered and I just don't know how to align them. I believe when something dies, words battle with pain to bring it back alive and then they gradually seems to fleet away making that something naked, mayhaps this is why my words are flaccid and crouched. At times I can see the letters around me gyrating in my breaths and everything seems to be going so quickly that i feel like drowning, then i hold my hand out to get hold of some letters but all I get are some wounds and the blood flows down in the sink painting all my greys in one shade.

    I don't have anyone to write for except my insecurities, and I swear in that moment when I write about it I feel the touch of words on my body and the way they steal the colour of my ink and gamble it with night makes me feel complete, they scour their way inside my soul, battle with my grief but in a wisp of time they fleet away and then the memories are left naked, they are so bare, bare enough to scuff my whole heart out.

    If I talk about love poetries, words get drunk on evening skies and splits you in mauve, silence then worships you and half of sun's yellow becomes yours. Love is the art of being the beat of someone's heart, the art of being someone's sunset fidelity and the art of being the salve of someone's moon. For me, love is a distant thing, I do not even have a full heart. I bend my knees on evening's sin, how can I sanctify someone else's silence. The words around me don't hang me on the gallows of love and I don't coerce them to drive summers all around my ink. But, there is a kind of schism inside me, a void. Something whrils in my head, triggers an urge inside to see different coloured eyes, a smile or maybe a new set of words, a new page? Even if I don't have what they call love, I'll have to pay my liability to it in blood either way, ( I guess the poet's would disagree.) I don't seem to understand this chicanery of existence.

    All my pages are pasted on the ceiling of my room, just like stars on nightskies. I gaze at them with azure virgin zeal just like my anguished bruises look at stars. There is no new set of words on all these pages, it is the same story that keeps on repeating down all the corners, it is the same blood that lingers down all the corners of my teeth. Just like stars, they do not quieten the silence of this night, neither do they veil darkness but still the blue and grey fathoms at their sight and the finest constellation of memories would form and they'd rephrase the preamble of nights and in the farthest corner of my heart the blood would break free from numbness. What more does a ink indigent poet wants? Nothing, but only something to feel.

    -- Ayesha || S(in)ombre

    Thank you @writersnetwork :)

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  • __ayesha 5w

    || Nepenthean ||

    -- And if the light that your metaphors glistens
    were to fall on my skies even for once, I swear
    that my sunrises will never be sinned again --

    Just how gracefully he rises the dawn in his poetries and how impeccably he makes this night fidelious with his ink. Let alone the sun envy his noor and let alone the nights gnaw its own stars because even the mere words of poetry can't befall the beauty of his soul. I have seen him caress the flaws of summers and I have seen autumns becoming crapulent on his metaphors. He rides the chariot of springs with his scar's folklore and being the maecenas of sunset's tailored rue he allays winters.

    ~ He is like the shore of an infidel ocean, like the skyline of
    silence and prayers and the nepenthean of laden echoes.

    -- Ayesha || Sanity

    Happy birthday Faisal. May your receive the greatest of
    joys and everlasting bliss. I have nothing much to give, just
    this. I hope you like it.

    Thank you so much for everything. You're
    one of those people who keeps me sane.

    Have a good day ahead :)


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  • __ayesha 6w

    || Mondo ||

    Midst the moon and stars
    darkness still glistens your ink,
    so what happens to your quill
    when the sun blooms prosody
    of tranquil?

    The souls will shoot off from
    cosmos taking rebirth for the
    sake of my artistry cause till the
    darkness was my ally, I calmed
    the chaotic ones but with prosody
    of Apollo, I shall tranquil the dead
    inside me.


    #mondo @writersnetwork

    A collab with @anirockz7.
    The answer is written by Ani bhai, thank you so much
    for completing this mondo.

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