ek tukda dhoop ka andar andar nam sa hain

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  • _ghar_ 3h

    To the girl who feels like my favourite song,

    We never talked much, but still the way you make me feel everytime is ineffable. The feeling of your presence here makes this place more like a home for me. I don't know how to adore you, cuz a vast personality like you can't be described in mere words. You are amazing person for me. A person who feels like vintage photographs, a person who feels like long lost love, a person who always makes me to feel the whole zoo in my stomach, a sister, a friend, a ho(p/m)e for me.
    I love you to the andromeda galaxy and back.

    Happy birthday love, @_firefly

    PS: sorry for the spelling mistakes if there are any, humko hindi theek se likhni nahi aati.

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    भरी दोपहर की शांति,
    बाज़ार में सुंदर फूलों कि दुकान
    शायद तुम हि हो,
    मॉनसून कि पहली फुहार,
    सर्द दिनों में सूरज का ताप
    शायद तुम हि हो।

    मेरे सबसे पसंदीदा गाने का राग
    बाजीराव मस्तानी का अथाह प्रेम अनुराग
    शायद तुम हि हो,
    माँ के चेहरे पर तारों सी मुस्कान
    बाबा के सर पे, बहादुरी का ताज
    शायद तुम हि हो।

    फोन पर प्रेमी के "आई लव यू" का मैसेज,
    किसी खोए हुए का मिल जाना,
    शायद तुम हि हो,
    ख़ुदको महसूस करने कि वजह,
    नानी का सालों बाद घर आना,
    शायद तुम हि हो।

    ग़ालिब कि गज़ल,
    ढलते सूर्य के शफक़ का एहसास
    शायद तुम हि हो,
    माँ कि 6 पंक्तियों वाली कविताएं,
    हमारी बचपन की हिंदी कि किताब,
    शायद तुम हि हो।

    तमस रैना में चाँद-तारों का बाग,
    ब्लैक एंड वाइट फिल्मों का सबसे सुंदर भाग
    शायद तुम हि हो,
    किसी नव वधु कि मांग में लाल,
    विद्यालय में जिनका जवाब हमें मालूम हो
    ऐसे सवाल,
    शायद तुम हि हो।

    हमारा बनाया हुआ पहला चित्र,
    हमारा सबसे प्रिय मित्र,
    शायद तुम हि हो,
    बेज़ार साये में इंद्रधनुष के रंग
    हमारे सबसे दृढ़ हौसलों का मनोरंज,
    केवल तुम हि हो।


  • _ghar_ 2d

    #brave !?
    @/writersnetwork - Hum yaad hain tumhe!?
    Ps: Thank you so much for 250+ fellows, it's really huge for me.

    Things I wish to say to myself, someday, perhaps.

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    I appreciate your existence

    I appreciate how you eliminate
    those opaque clusters of overgrown
    sunflowers from the profundity of
    your bouquet like heart, to breathe
    lavenders again.

    I appreciate how you never wipe up
    those steamy mirrors of your restroom,
    cuz you are afraid if all you would see
    are the sighs and tiredness you
    unintentionally wear on your sleeves,
    but still you end up making your
    favourite doodle on it.

    I appreciate how you click polaroids
    of the things that no one observes but
    never got guts to flash your own,
    because you often wonder if your
    achromatic skin will appear in small
    frames or not.

    I appreciate how you never scream out
    loud when the pain emblazon restlessness
    on your sky like epidermis, but you end
    up writing a poetry in that fancy vocabulary
    you googled many times.

    I appreciate how you learnt to live from
    the days when you used to worry about
    the dinner and now u end up worrying if
    you have enough breaths to live one more day.


  • _ghar_ 1w

    #place is it?
    Ps: I have forgotten how to write.

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    I become a poet
    When I homogenize my existence in pale profundity of vermillion and periwinkle sky like gouache, from my lemony eggshell toe nails to paper-thin elflocks, to become the dust of dusk.

    I become a poet
    When I nuzzle the crevices of my partially foggy window on its left flap while imprisoning polaroids and portraits of my backyard in different shades of seasons, where I kissed him for the first time.

    I become a poet
    When my consciousness perch cross legged in my mother's lap, imbibing the struggles that no one has ever appreciated and the art of living for others.

    I become a poet
    when I slumber on the ramshackled ligneous bed that whispers shakespeare's sonnets and the emptiness of dickinson's poems whenever I try to breathe some lines of hopes from the broken wind chimes hanging just above my chest drawer where I hide some eulogies to myself for all the times I have died and reborn as a poet or a poem.


  • _ghar_ 2w

    #clerihew (perhaps)

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    Encephalon in the oven, Alas! she was sylvia plath
    Nothingness and the blues are poet's aftermath
    Perching crossed leg in the horrendous walls of the bell jar
    Her words exhaling vehemence in our heart, healing all the sempiternal s(t)cars.


  • _ghar_ 3w

    Happy birthday to the girl who feels like home.

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    मैं गंभीर घनेरी रात प्रिये
    तुम श्वेत रमणीक सवेर सी

    मैं कटु कनेर की क्षति प्रिये
    तुम शीर लीन जलेबी सी

    मैं थर थर कांपती चेतना प्रिये
    तुम आसमानी विराम सरोवर सी

    मैं जली हुई तस्वीरें प्रिये
    तुम सावन के अलौकिक दृश्य सी

    मैं गुप्त संघर्ष की चीख प्रिये
    तुम मधुर-मधुर मुस्कान सी

    मैं मतलब का बेमतलब संबंध प्रिये
    तुम राधाकृष्ण के मनोहर अनुराग सी

    मैं उचाट ध्वस्त आवास प्रिये
    तुम पवित्र बैकुंठ के मार्ग सी

    मैं किसीका ना अपना, बंजारा प्रिये
    तुम माँ कि लोरी अपनी सी

    मैं लाख नाकाम प्रयास प्रिये
    तुम मोद-प्रमोद कामयाबी सी


  • _ghar_ 4w

    Ps: My grammar is weak.

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    Hours on myself

    If there was a way to fix the things whose mother is brokenness,
    Then I would have cache the subfusc
    stretch marks of the evening when
    grandma whispered her last story to
    the vermillion cries of clouds, clouds
    that rains only on me.

    I would have steal the courage of
    some revolutionary figures from modern
    history and weaved them on the
    border of maa's banarasi saree, so that
    she could fight back with the society who
    wrapped her 14th spring in some injudicious
    morals and sullen myths.

    I would have rescheduled those unwanted
    panic attacks which i feel more often now,
    because I want to bleed some more sceneries
    of the moments I spent with numb nights
    and humid afternoons and without myself too.

    ~I am a poet wondering, if hope hopes for something too?~


  • _ghar_ 5w

    @/miraquill- Thank you so much for POD (2).

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    Pluck out the hyacinths of longings
    outgrown wildly on your chest and
    inhale the monochromatic clouds of
    "I want to die" hovering around your head.

    Play the lyrics of that song which
    sounds like hope to you and let your
    headphones ooze out some blood of
    equanimity in form of sound waves to
    your tympanic membrane that haven't
    heard nothing but only your sobs at night.

    Turn off the lights of survival and embellish
    some hues of gloomy emotions on your
    pale lips, let your conscience dance on
    different sections of your book shelf
    and dip your lemon nails in imageries
    of your favourite novels that dead poets
    painted for you.


  • _ghar_ 7w

    Nobody said it was easy
    No one ever said it would be so hard
    ~ coldplay (The scientist)

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    How to become a poet

    Macerate yourself into micro fragments
    of mental illness, like dysthymia and insomnia
    devour the sunlight and weep on the shoulders
    of silent afternoons. Buy a syringe of poetic
    devices and inject some famous poems in your
    achromatic blood. Betray the apricity and let
    ambre blood of evenings descend in deep caverns
    of your cracked collarbones. Fall in love with
    panic attacks, make out with words and books.
    scratch metaphors from the cicatrixes of your skin,
    pluck sunflowers and daisies outgrown on the outskirts
    of your forsaken heart. Breathe a little less than
    mediocres but write more than the number of times
    you cried and died. Stay alive but lack of life.


  • _ghar_ 7w


    I am learning to string the
    vermillion sunsets and Mumbai's
    lavender skylines in fragments
    of debonair vocabulary and
    poetic devices to festoon it
    around my collarbones where
    I hide the "original to some extent"
    version of my persona.

    I am learning not to steal
    "the reason of breathing for
    one more day" from that 7
    years old ligneous photo frame
    on my maroon wall where I
    gave birth to my first poetry.
    I am learning to wear some
    divergent hues of imageries by
    T.S Eliot, to escape the tenebrosity
    of reality.

    I am learning to disappear because
    it hurts to be so different, it hurts to be a poet.


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  • _ghar_ 8w

    "I claim to be this person not selfish not greedy
    but that's not me, it's hard to be"
    ~ Raghav Meattle (city life)

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    ʜᴏᴡ ᴅᴏ ɪ ʟᴏᴏᴋ?

    ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ᴏꜰ ꜱyʟᴠɪᴀ ᴩʟᴀᴛʜ'ꜱ
    ɪꜱ ʙʟᴜʀʀᴇᴅ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɢʀᴇy ᴄᴀᴛᴀꜱᴛʀᴏᴩʜᴇꜱ,
    ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ꜱᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴇʀʀɪʙʟy ᴩᴇʀᴇɴɴɪᴀʟ
    ꜱᴍᴜᴅɢᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴅᴇꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
    ᴀɴᴅ ᴅyꜱᴛʜyᴍɪᴀ.

    ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ᴏꜰ ꜱyʟᴠɪᴀ ᴩʟᴀᴛʜ'ꜱ
    ɪꜱ ᴍᴀɴɪꜰᴇꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
    ᴏꜰ ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ, ꜱᴛᴇᴀʟɪɴɢ ꜱʟᴇᴇᴩɪɴɢ ᴩɪʟʟꜱ
    ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʜᴇʀ ᴍᴏᴛʜᴇʀ'ꜱ ᴄᴀʙɪɴᴇᴛ,
    ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ ᴄʀᴀᴡʟɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴀꜱᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ
    ꜰᴏʀ 3 ᴅᴀyꜱ. ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴏʀ ᴀʟɪᴠᴇ,
    ɪ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ

    ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ᴏꜰ ꜱyʟᴠɪᴀ ᴩʟᴀᴛʜ'ꜱ
    ɪꜱ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ʙʀᴏʙᴅɪɴɢɴᴀɢɪᴀɴ
    ᴀᴩᴇʀᴛᴜʀᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ "ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇʟʟ ᴊᴀʀ" ᴀɴᴅ
    "ᴅyɪɴɢ ɪꜱ ᴀɴ ᴀʀᴛ."

    ᴛʜᴇ ᴍɪʀʀᴏʀ ᴏꜰ ꜱyʟᴠɪᴀ ᴩʟᴀᴛʜ'ꜱ
    ɪꜱ ꜱʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴀ 30 yᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴏʟᴅ
    ꜰᴇᴍɪɴɪɴᴇ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ ʀᴏᴀꜱᴛᴇᴅ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴇᴀᴅ
    ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴇᴍᴩɪᴛᴇʀɴᴀʟ ꜰɪʀᴇ ᴏꜰ
    ʟᴀᴄʜʀyᴍᴏꜱᴇ, ᴩᴏᴇᴛʀɪᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢɴᴇꜱꜱ.

    ~The mirror of sylvia plath's is
    on the walls of many homeless souls,
    Please break it~