Miraquill
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__ayesha
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__ayesha
1w
Read MoreClutching 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.
_________________________________________ -
__ayesha
1w
Read More
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
Read More
|| 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
___________________________________________________________________
#thingsyousaid
@_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.
-
__ayesha
2w
Read More
|| 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 :).
-
__ayesha
5w
Read More
|| 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 :)
@faisal_hussain_haqqani_.
-
__ayesha
6w
Read More
|| 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..
-
quagmire_
19h
Read Moreyou know what's hard ?
to let go of someone
who you think you can't survive without.
you know you want that one person for the rest of your life.
you know if given an option between all the riches , comforts of the world and that one person..
you'd still chose them.
letting that person go is effing hard .
knowing that no amout of effort will be just enough to stop them from walking away.
leaving you all alone, longing to be around that one person.
I mean if you're walking away just like that
Tell me how to survive,
Tell me how to not need you ,
Don't just walk away.
So if you're chosing people above yourself.
Just think twice ..
-
tengoku
41w
Read MoreAs I always say, you're special. For me, for Mirakee and for everyone else. I'm so glad that I've a friend like you. We don't talk much but whenever we do, it never feels like we ain't good friends :"))
Happiest birthday ♡
@thunderclap
#HBDPSangfroid
She is fragile like a human heart
but strong like the spine of a book.
She is the chaos of the ocean depth
and sangfroid in a babbling brook.
She is far away among the stars, but
seems close to you like phosphenes.
She can't be touched with bare hands
but can be fathomed in naked poetry.
Her bones are made up of haiku
and sonnets' blood run in her veins.
She is the dance of summer wind and
songs sung by the earth when it rains.
She is loud like ear piercing silence
while she speaks the tongue of peace.
She is the cool shelter under tree and
the warmth in the December breeze.
She fights like roaring waves of ocean
but she loves like the moon to the night.
She owns the whole world, and everything
belongs to the universe in her eyes.
-Ananya -
tengoku
15w
Read More
हमेशा से मुझे ऐसा लगता था कि लेखक की उम्र उसके व्यक्ति से दोगुनी तेज़ी से बढ़ती है। उसकी थकान उस पर बहुत जल्द ही हावी होने लगती है।
और हाल ही में, मेरे भीतर का लेखक भी जर्जर बूढ़ा हो चला था। उसमे प्रेमी बने रहने का बल अब नहीं था।
"मैं अब तुम्हारे साथ नहीं रहना चाहती" काशी ने कहा। वो जैसे ही झटके से उठी आंसुं की एक बूंद उसकी खाली प्लेट पर गिर गई। उसने पलटकर मुझे देखा, उसकी आंखें लाल थीं। फिर प्लेट उठाकर वो किचन में चली गई।
मुझे, और शायद काशी को भी इस दिन की महक बहुत पहले ही लग गई थी। मुझे याद है आम दिनों के मुतबिक़ उस दिन कैफे में भीड़ ना के बराबर थी।
"तुम्हारी उंगलियां कुछ कहती हैं। मैंने उन्हें सुना है।" उसने अपने कप में चमच घुमाते हुए कहा।
"क्या सुना है तुमने?" मैंने अपना लैपटॉप बंद करके किनारे रख दिया।
"वो कहती हैं कि लेखक बेरहम होते हैं। वो हर इंसान को अपनी किसी कहानी का पात्र मानते हैं। और फिर उन पात्रों की भावनाएं उनके कलम की स्याही हो जाती है।"
ये सुनकर मुझे ऐसा लगा जैसे मानों मेरी चोरी पकड़ी जा चुकी हो। मैं सकपका गया।
"नहीं.. नहीं ऐसा नहीं है।" ऐसा कहकर मैं खुदको ठगने की नाकाम कोशिश कर रहा था।"अच्छा सुनो ना! मेरे पात्र को तुम काशी कहकर पुकारना। और उससे वह सब कहना जो तुम किसी से नहीं कह सके।" थोड़ी देर बाद वो बोली। कहकर उसने कॉफ़ी की चुस्की ली और मेरे होठों की ओर देखने लगी।
"और उस रचना को तुम कभी छापना मत।"
मैंने इस बात पर थोड़ा सा मुस्कुरा दिया।
काशी उन रचनाओं में से थीं जिन्हें छापने में मुझे बहुत हिचकिचाहट होती है। ऐसा लगता है मानों जैसे अपनी निजी जिंदगी की तस्वीरें लेकर मैं खुले बाज़ार के बीच जा खड़ा हुआ हूं। और लोग उन तस्वीरों का मोल भाव किए जा रहे हैं। कोई कहता है कि, 'तुम जिस तरह से इस तस्वीर में मुस्कुरा रहे हो मुझे बिल्कुल पसंद नहीं आया।' या कोई ये कह रहा होता है कि 'इस तस्वीर में तुम्हारे रोने का तरीका मुझे गुस्सा दिलाता है।'
इससे ज़्यादा नग्न मैं और कभी महसूस नहीं कर सकता।
काशी बाल्कनी में खड़ी सिसक रही थी। मेरा मन हुआ कि मैं उसके पास जाकर उसके कंधे को छूउं। ठीक वहीं जहां पहली बार छुआ था। अपने अंगूठे से उसके गालों को सेहलाऊं। फिर हल्के से उसके आंखों को चूमकर माफ़ी मांग लूं। किस लिए? शायद जिस व्यक्ति से उसने कुछ सालों पहले प्रेम किया था उस व्यक्ति से जुदा होने के लिए। पता नहीं।
"ठीक है।" सिवाय इस सबके, मैंने दूर से ही कहा।
उसे मालूम था कि ये उसके डायनिंग टेबल पर कहे हुए का जवाब था।
"बस? तुम और कुछ नहीं कहना चाहते?"
मैं उससे कैसे कहता कि मैं उस खालीपन से प्रेम करने के लिए बेताब हूं जो वो अपने पीछे छोड़कर जाने वाली है। मैं उन कहानियों, कविताओं से मिलने के लिए उतारू हूं जो इस खालीपन से होते हुए, मेरे भीतर से लिखी जाएंगी।
"लेखक बेरहम होते हैं।" मैंने कहा।
उसने रोना बंद कर दिया।
"मुझे कभी मत लिखना।"
फिर आसुं पोछते हुए वो चली गईं।
उसके कहे पर मैंने उसे कभी नहीं लिखा। मैंने काशी को लिखा है,
असमंजस, ग्लानि और मौन के साथ।
-अनन्या -
tengoku
8w
Read More
पहले-पहले प्यार में पड़े लड़के बड़े ही दिलचस्प होते हैं। कई बार, या यूं कहें कि ज़्यादातर, बड़े विचित्र भी। इसके 'द मैन' बनने की परिभाषा अक्सर प्यार कि परिभाषा से टकराती रहती है।
वहीं लड़की के लिए प्यार में गिरना कोई नई बात नहीं होती। ये आए दिन फूल, पौधे, तितली, बिल्ली, कुत्ते, किसी टीचर के २ साल के बच्चे, बारिश के मेंढक, घोंघें के प्यार में गिरती पड़ती ही रहती है।
लड़के के पहले प्रेम में वो नज़ाकत और सावधानी होती है, जो कि उसने शायद ही इससे पहले कभी बरती होगी। कहीं चाय से जले होंठ कॉफ़ी पीना सीख रहे होते हैं तो कहीं स्पिनर उंगलियां, झुमकों का मोलभाव करना। उस एक लड़की के लिए खुदमें ढेरों बदलाव करना भी ठीक लगता है और दूसरी लड़कियों के तरफ देखना 'चीटिंग ऑन हर' जैसा।उसका दिन और रात, उस एक लड़की से शुरू और उस पर ही ख़तम होता है। दोस्तों, या कई लोगों के भीड़ में भी ना जाने कैसे ज़हन 'वो होती तो ये करती, वो होती तो ये कहती' के खयालों में ही उलझा रह जाता है।
और शाम को घर लौटते वक़्त कुछ नहीं तो रंगबिरंगे जंगली फूल 'उसके बालों में सुंदर लगेंगे' के बहाने से जेब में आ ही जाते हैं।
लड़का बातूनी नहीं है। पर लड़की ने उसे बोलना सीखा दिया है। अब बस लड़की के 'कैसा गया दिन?' पूछने पर लड़का शुरू से लेके अंत तक, दिन की छोटी से छोटी बात भी उसके सामने खोलकर बैठ जाता है।
लड़की सुनती नहीं है। पर लड़के ने उसे सुनना सीखा दिया है। अब वो मुस्कुराती हुई लड़के का बोलना, एकटक देखती रहती है।
"हाय राम!"
"क्या हुआ?"
"तुम कितनी सुंदर हो!"
"कुछ भी बोलते हो तुम।"
"अरे सच्ची! हमें क्या बोलना था हम तो भूल ही गए।"
"धत्त! पागल कहीं के।"
रात भर की बातों के बाद भी लड़की सुंदर ही है। पर लड़के के आंखों के नीचे काले गड्ढे आ गए हैं। हालांकि उसे फर्क नहीं पड़ता क्योंकि, हर बार मिलने पर लड़की उसके बाल बड़े प्यार से बनाती और उसके गालों को छूकर उसे हैंडसम बुलाती है।
और उसे हैंडसम महसूस होने लगता है।
ऐसे प्रेम में सीखना और सिखाना खूब होता है। ज़्यादातर सिखाने का हिस्सा लड़की का होता है और सीखने का लड़के का।
जैसे कि दौड़ना लड़के को बचपन से आता है, पर आहिस्ता से टेहेलना उसे लड़की सिखाती है। थकना उसे मालूम है, पर लड़की उसे कंधे पर सिर रखकर सुस्ताना सिखाती है। उदासी से वो परिचित है, पर रोना उसे लड़की सिखाती है।
लड़की को प्रेम में ज़्यादा कुछ नहीं करना पड़ता। उसे बस लड़के का सब कुछ किया और दिया सहेजकर अपने पास रखना होता है और उसे ऐसा एहसास दिलाना होता है कि वो हमेशा, हमेशा उसके साथ रहेगी। सिर्फ एक बार नहीं, बल्कि समय समय पर। लड़के के निराश या हतोत्साहित होने पर भी।
क्योंकि पहले प्रेम में पड़े लड़के बेहद खूबसूरत और नाज़ुक होते हैं।
बस इसकी सराहना करना लड़की को आनी चाहिए।
-अनन्या -
you want the truth?
-
there's mercury in the moonlight instead of silver tonight. i hear sirens wail and wailing sirens until the noises leak into one another, romantic soundtrack to a vertigo dream i saw myself frothing at the mouth in. i think too often about empty cartilages of the fountain pens i used to use back in class fifth. of friends made and lost, of clothes i grew out of. they renovated the house i spent majority of my life in and i wonder if the black gate now blue misses itself the same way i do. bottled remorse of a childhood passed in pieces. perhaps, the gigantic multitude of skins of other people layering on top of my own is just to hide this iron heavy guilt of never being able to love someone entirely. and i keep playing roles of other people to make up for it. multiplying cells infected with a virus infecting a body of funerals. and this, too– is this grief true or is this another play of heartbreak? i can't tell. i couldn't tell blood from water if you asked. what is the cost of ungratefulness? is this ungrateful, what will it cost? the folds of my mind uphold a sanctuary for sinners and when i strip naked of my own illusion there remains only rage and nostalgia and abrupt endings. and maybe this is an apology, and maybe a confession. most likely it is both. i don't love you. i don't think i ever can.
©sadderdaze -
heartsease
1w
Read MoreI'm not asking why -
Poets are the remnants of catastrophes
because I've witnessed the same,
tragedies of lost love and broken friend-
-ships, of 3am macabre(s) and obsolete
memories.
I'm not asking either to
understand their pain or to hear echoes of
their past histories because when poets
are hurt they don't bleed red, they carry sun-
flowers in their blood, it leaks yellow, they
reek of hope and paint words in oceanic
hues for their miseries to drown and elope.
I'm not asking to believe in a poet
when they say I'm alive because they often
forget to mention "I'm alive in words
and exist to be dead in the grave of poetries".
Their poems speak of love and forevers
but their heart pants to hear its beauty,
they walk through the boulevards of
lexicons and gets trapped in the home of agony.
I'm asking to never rely on a poet
because they don't own anything but
live on everything borrowed,
borrowed from the hidden casket of
Nature. Their metaphors and adjectives,
the smell of their love and their world
that often times look imaginative.
~Purva
#heart #poet
@writersnetwork you've my heart already ♡.
-
barbad
1w
जाली मुकदमे ने फिर कहीं का नहीं छोड़ा उसे
ताउम्र जिसनें मोहब्बत की हर शर्त निभाई थी
©barbad -
paperwhites
1w
Read More@miraquill @writersnetwork Please take this into notice.
I need my posts back. Rn, I can precisely see nothing
except the blank gray backgrounds. It has eaten up my
peace. It sucks tbh. Kindly rectify it as soon as possible.
Affections
-paperwhites ❤...
Good evening peeps. I hope everyone is having a good time. Cutting to the chase, I'm not able to view my old self-edited posts. Now I know it was not that huge, but I formerly deleted the app from which I had edited them and had them penned on 'cause by then I was proficient to view and read them here appropriately. And now I've kinda failed all those writings *wipes sincere tears*. It just gets me anxiety.
Also, I wanted to ask if the remaining of you
are withstanding the same or if it's a new snag?
Does anyone know a plan to get the posts back?
If yes, please share it in the comment box below.
X -
"A poet is the one who
forms reality even more
than the living man."
______Sometimes through
the magical phrase
that catches the breath
sometimes through
the immortal spirit
that creates out of skylit
A L T A F -
adamantquill
1w
Read MoreSometimes you feel your feet cemented deep underneath, petrified over the slumping edges of the skies you wish to touch. You tried to make your spirit ironclad, instead your flashing wings turned heavy now incapable of flights, transforming you into one of those lively sculptures seated in corner on dead nights. The day one learns to pick themself from the disfigured steeping stairs and harrowing guilt of mistakes confused as sins is the day one shall truly start moving forward.
A check-in to the failed reality that was once the painted dreamland. A realm of reality that failed to cater to our understanding of mundanity and peace pouring staggering complexities of world against our willingness to savour them.To quench the thirst of bewildering norms they let their mind play hide and seek with the normalcy in their imagination meeting the unexpected expectations and stand as a winner at the finishing line. But how far that goes to soothe the permanent scars remain the question with no necessity to find answers. We have rather more important and different solutions to find.
Climbing a myriad steps, slipping through sweat and tears before stepping on the desired pedestal just for someone waiting there to push you down and you fall down the unfathomable depth in a bloodied pool of same questions asked on self doubts and crisis of efforts poured. Journey is never easy to reach the skyline but takes a few seconds to fall and gravitate to the ground. Some will tell us to keep trying again and again without considering the wounds we are carrying from trying so hard and for so long while some may tell us to let it go, there's much more beautiful thing besides that.
We have so much to feel that the mason jar of befuddled emotions overflow, drowning us in a state of overwhelming thoughts to decide on the right feeling befitting the puzzled voids, turning blind to others and so we end up putting wrong puzzle piece in wrong place ineffectually. We have so much to speak, but are barely adorned in meanings around all those obscured thoughts and emotions and sometimes lips stitched to not let it downpour. They continue to sting until and unless addressed in mere words in existence to express.
~adamantquill
#sometimesFailed reality.
Sometimes you feel like a failed reality tightening the grip around the neck, bruising and choking in paradoxical expectations. Perhaps just let it go if it hurts that much that it kills.
©adamantquill
