a_franteen_writer

I'm just a simple *bean* 17. she/her��

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  • a_franteen_writer 1d

    #learning #learn #miraquill #writersnetwork #pod #wod #love #ceesrepsots
    Well I'm sorry my posts have not been the way I guess I expect myself to be or anyone else might .... But like writer's block is hard to get over.
    Love��
    27.11.21
    Time: 18:59
    PS: I'm in love again with Maya Angelou...her voice is angelic :)

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    "Love liberates"

    The boy in the mirror sat next to me and asked in a faint voice, a tiny whisper, a mutiny of a tiny snowflake flowing in the wind to kiss me close,
    close; on the lips.
    .
    "Why do you love the stars even though they don't know who you are?"
    He had a Nile flowing in his eyes.
    .
    "They don't ask me who I am, neither do I.
    The first love of a child is hidden in between them. They know it all but pretend not to know,
    so that you can feel the soul, a body- less soul floating like the last two ribs of your rib cage. They're free, more than I can ever be"
    .
    He flowed to me like air
    you don't see it coming,
    it happens,
    storms are seen
    but love is felt
    still not a silent storm,
    a revolution;
    mutiny.
    *An one man army*
    .
    "Death is in search of love too.
    And the stars loves death.
    All the souls turn themselves in to be liberated like free slaves who found their salvation and breathe the wind of fireflies and fires brewed in black Irish coffee.
    Airplanes hovering in a zero gravity environment.
    Death loves stars as well.
    They never get lost in translation
    They often meet under the mistletoes of lost lovers; reunited."
    .
    He closed his eyes and scurried his muffled voice into my ears like an abandoned church,
    whose walls
    have witnessed love,
    liberating people like pure fine gold dust.
    "You teach me how to live
    in a world where people struggle to survive
    from your dark stained eyes
    from your faded silhouette
    from your faint silences.
    The abandoned dandelion fields have finally found it's home.
    The atheist body; a religion.
    '"Love liberates"'
    in the words of Angelou.
    .
    I smiled,
    The wrinkles on the edge of my eyes smiled,
    The stars smiled,
    For they knew I learned to love a "coal" like a "diamond".
    ©a_franteen_writer

  • a_franteen_writer 2d

    #end #miraquill #writersnetwork #ceesreposts #wod #pod
    .
    Trigger warning:- has some graphic images and might not be suitable for some.
    .
    This is a piece from the perspective of period blood, and how a girl is raped which further leads to a revolution when her son is born.
    .
    The end here is the start of a revolution.
    @miraquill
    @writersnetwork

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    Mutiny strides

    Acids and acids
    Were forced down your spine
    Time breaks bonds
    Bonds that no one should confide in.
    .
    13
    - A pre revolution:
    I have seen it all, anew, afresh, keen.
    The blazing follicles that conjured up all it's strength to sing melodies of pre revolution:- the Constitution of dreams, fertile and now diamonds rain from the mouths of hot eyed stares; the lost galaxies and the multiverse weave a sweater for the universe to wear. I've seen the dancing hormones all over the place and the chit chat of your clitoris.
    It's all ballooned, cradled with false hopes and true alarms that sound crude, but are the real brutes.
    .
    14
    - Intrusion :
    Religions reconciled and a rock hard, wooden horse was sent to the city of Troy; a forbidden city with a stock full of pre-mature babies busy in their old lives. Martyred shells of revolutionary women fought their way, so did you, from the now turned city of Troy to Nanking, breasts cut ajar open, nipples sprayed sheets of docile blood. Peal of the skin of history from your mouths, ladies and gentlemen, does it terrify you or harass you? Take off your pyramid hats and see for yourself, you still hate it now?
    .
    15
    - Ballooned skies in the tummy
    The lawn under the facade where every incarnation of God was borne and hails to, now host's the impaling figure of a meek child. They bless the little baby to break all the ruled chains of mankind; to avenge the mothers and their children and their children who died thinking that they live in a fairy tale when all of it was a ghastly, horrendous nightmare. This being soaked me in like Plath, who had nine times to die, and so she did.
    .
    16
    - I flow agian
    A year in the wild now, the child tore the tomb apart and sprawled me over like the Satan's blood shot eyes. But he is not a Satan. He has me, an irked confession of blasphemy and herecy. He will be burned with you in the fire of the 16th century "Index Librorum Prohibitorum" . I want you to know that fire isn't purifying, it is dreadful; frightening like the dissipated body of a loved one.
    .
    17
    - A two time murder
    Murderous cities and allied forces now break the doors agian after three years of wreakage of the sunken ship. They do it, again mercilessly. They visit the Ross island, and soon find out that the sun has turned to a woolen fuchsia ball.
    It's wrinkled, crumbling. Still it has hope to survive. They celebrate an easy victory. The two year old now holds the woolen ball tight, betwixt his fingers and slips it through the chain of his mother's ashes. Your ashes. You've become a Schrodinger's cat, alive and dead at the same time. Your martyrdom is alive, only a heart throb away from loosing it's virginity.
    .
    18
    - The upbringing of mutiny
    I visit you every month to remind you why I've chosen you. Baby, smoke the Mercury cigarettes even if it's poisonous, to remind yourself the taste of fresh air and to see Hitlers die from the smoke. You are the sacred feminine , Athena. Burn the Irises of the people who've eaten your heart alive. Don't mistake it for being heartless. You are not. You'll never be. You've seen the world enough to know that heartlessness is not a disease, but a caricature of satanic hue.
    .
    20
    -They call him a curse, I call him a riot
    Look, this languid, brown eyed boy with a pearly shine is a dragon warrior.
    Look, see, listen and breath.
    His revolutionary tongue,
    His truthful eyes,
    His loving lips,
    Fresh Earl grey tea,
    In the middle of nowhere.
    Once in a blue moon.
    You have nothing to loose.
    Seasons have left your stride, every corner of you is smacked. Teach him to swim in the quicksand. Make him breath the Mercury cigarettes and teach him to blaze the fuchsia woolen ball for it has in it a rising sun.
    An end is only the start of a new beginning.
    He has me in him and a whole lot of you.
    ©a_franteen_writer

  • a_franteen_writer 4d

    My art is me/

    i am a hypocrite.
    i spoke lies to the roadside pebbles
    in the night of the futures held in one single breath.
    (breath or no breath)
    and kicked it off
    in the hopes of redemption.

    in the eyes of the sun
    i found my eyes
    nagging
    and staring
    staring
    and nagging
    ablaze
    with a dead flame.

    i cried trinkets in periwinkle shells
    oceans in itself
    and squashed peaches with a butcher's knife
    red, thick, a whole damn murderers' street.

    you need blood to be alive
    i have some today
    so, I write.

    the moon with the stars churn
    martyred men to red poppies on their graves
    the sight of these poppies
    sets the
    metal frame howling.
    until then i was told
    that bars do not scream
    even though they certainly do
    like the old bookshelves
    behind the door
    in my very own room.

    liquor, Champagne
    or
    petrified petrichor
    dusty, dingy, dull and grey
    sneak into the riverine
    on my hand
    to get lost in plain sight.

    now maggots eat my oxygen
    brew it like coffee
    slow and steady
    and drink it with
    blood stains
    s(k)in and bones
    teeth
    meat; flesh
    and the freshly painted ivory
    of my own teeth.

    so, last night
    while sitting on the window sill
    a bird flew in.
    a leaf withered and fell.
    at the right moment,
    on the right spot.
    so i stood up,
    silently,
    alone,
    fragile,
    to fall
    on the right spot
    at the right moment.
    (A house is not a home,
    and the heart is just a stone.)
    .
    a home never found/.
    ©a_franteen_writer

  • a_franteen_writer 1w

    Orange glow

    There's an orange glow on my textbooks right now.

    The Sunday slipped in between my fingers
    Sipping coffee
    Made from the rarest of beans
    And no sugar
    It was bitter
    Bitter but better
    Than the sour sugar the world presents you with
    You take a sip
    And immediately panic with the amount of sweetness
    You've just witnessed
    It's unbearable
    Truly.

    The glow on my diary pages has lost its tint
    Like your Rosy cheeks
    In the middle of a snowfall
    Snowflakes settled on your cheeks
    And on the collagen of your nose
    You burned,
    Even though it was cold
    You burned even if the sun quit it's job to keep you warm
    You burned when the water in your body froze
    You burned even though all the love in the world was yours
    Still you survived.
    (Lazarus Resurrected)

    The glow on my textbooks
    Has darkened.
    Faded .
    Died.

    In a distant corner,
    A flower shed a tear
    from it's hazel nut eyes
    Abandoning all the love
    It had ever evoked
    In its life.

    There's beauty even in the downfall of empires.
    ©a_franteen_writer

  • a_franteen_writer 3w

    So this poem is based on the great Indian epic, The Ramayana.
    Centering around Sita , this poem has my anger on why she didn't use powers to defend herself. I know many will say that the Ramayana has deeper purposes and I agree to that... BUT THIS IS MY INTERPRETATION AND I AM FREE TO INTERPRET IT THE WAY I LIKE AND THIS IS TOO ALL THE WOMEN WHO FORGED THEMSELVES AND BECAME WARRIORS IN THE LANGUAGE OF TREASON.
    .
    #freeverse #miraquill #writersnetwork #pod #wod #ceesreposts #share
    .
    @writersnetwork
    @miraquil
    ☮️ Peace ��

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    Parables of false hope under Sita's veil

    mother earth sprouts young girls,
    in the laps of barren ocean,
    fire for eyes, water for lips,
    a cool sensation of hypnotic ascetics,
    cries were heard far and wide,
    not every father is a Janaka,
    or countries Mithila,
    but
    a lotus blooms in mud,
    so she blossoms under her veil.
    ______________________________________

    sitting under the shade,
    shade throwing shade for a thousand nightfalls,
    Massacred myriads of meandering rivers,
    ring on the left, bruises on the right,
    for she forgot to aromatize,
    her household in a dazzling white light,
    under the scornful sun,
    above the alcove of four and a half walls,
    half broken ceiling,
    half broken roots,
    weeds growing over the sinful moon,
    the fire in her eyes that once spoke of treason,
    now becomes a dormant volcano.
    ______________________________________

    exiles don't last for a mere fourteen years,
    they last a lifetime.
    so life forced her into exile,
    (Rams are also very hard to find)
    the lakshman rekhas are always breached by one's own kin,
    so everyday new Ravanas appear on the scene,
    some with fake charms,
    some with a mirage,
    a mirage in an open desert,
    water is not what one seeks,
    but hopes of better times is what makes one believe,
    in the hallucinations of a daydream.
    ______________________________________

    so the Icarus fell with her broken wings.
    fire for eyes, water for lips,
    that were once diminished,
    rekindle,
    the gaze that burned demons once blurred,
    came to life from the fall,
    she stood up and stared,
    a raging glare,
    burning Ravana and his Lanka,
    she knew that no ram will slay,
    the demon king for her display,
    Sitas are always forged through death and fire,
    so she screamed thunders,
    wore lightening in her anklets,
    swords were her bracelets,
    to strike havoc
    on whoever breached
    her and the Sita rekha,
    which she carved for herself
    .
    thus and henceforth,
    .
    A warrior was built form ruins speaking the language of treason.
    .
    A treason on false hopes, dreams and aspirations.
    .
    ______________________________________
    *****************************************
    ©a_franteen_writer

  • a_franteen_writer 3w

    So this one is a repost. I decided to repost this because honestly... I really love this piece... So I decided with some corrections let's post this again and I did.
    .
    #miraquill #writersnetwork #imagery #hyperbole #ceesreposts #pod #wod #share
    @writersnetwork
    @miraquill
    .
    #death #emotions #poems #writers #miraquil

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    More and More

    More and more,
    They want more,
    Half rotten flesh smeared across the bloody door,
    Where skin ripped apart
    Found its abode
    Oxygenated body robust from maggots of blood thrust, black eyed, savour and devour the corpse,
    Tracing back to the veins lying superficially,
    In jars of muscles and bones cut from ebony,
    Scraped of their marrow,
    Ivoried from TNT finely structured and
    Bombarded by felonies beyond humanitarian censorship or control.

    From the hell's brink
    Chastisement pours to cut of your souls,
    Satanic rituals of occult birth rise to shatter your senses, and seek for refuge in animosity,
    So as to fulfill the accomplishment
    Of fertility to brazen and become barren,
    Only to harvest cracks that seep and perchlorate,
    The waters of devil activities and breathe in the forbidden air of poisoning brutality,
    Vivisected carefully to decompose and compress a handsome ransom of faces jolted to master a pestering smile,
    Plastered all over the periphery of those dirty mouths.

    Their smiling swords strike with apathy on some weakened strands of existence,
    That burn and burn and melt into broiled hides,
    Circumambient all over till the peripheral vision goes,
    Infinity approaching
    Walls that never stop moving,
    Abiding by no law of physics,
    Keep pushing the remains into a pot
    To be rectified and resurrected
    Deep frying "it" to superhumane division wreaking vengeance; sociopathic, with fake emotions.

    So now what do I do?
    To not end up like this unfortunate counterpart, that bore holes in empty walls?
    What do I do to not fall in the pot and become a delicious delicacy of the wildly untamed?
    What do I do to protect the little beans that have sprouted in the garden of eve?
    What do I do to stop an emotional murderer?
    What to I do to stop from asking and being afraid of these dirty fairy tales?
    Fairy tales that are too true to be true?
    Fairy tales of demons that slice benevolence and somehow harvest the seeds of hatred?
    ©a_franteen_writer

  • a_franteen_writer 3w

    Crossing the side walks of grief,
    I clutch the packet of memories
    Heavy; sorrow lined, packed, drained;
    An entire ocean handcuffed in chains.
    ©a_franteen_writer

  • a_franteen_writer 3w

    Hopeless

    *The windows open,
    But the heart is clasped
    In the merry time while
    The others are awake;
    I sleep in a deep slumber
    Still eyes are half open
    They see
    They bereave*

    - To the dead and the walk on the roads leading to lost hopes and homes-

    //Chopped lilies/
    /Severed heads/
    /Little lies/
    /Disastrous -
    Reminisce/
    /The ugly taste
    Of youth
    Love
    Hope
    Peace//

    // Deflated balloons/
    /Sunken skies/
    /Fire to the ice
    /Creepers run dry/
    / Fail to climb/
    /The massive walls/
    /The old shack/
    /Or shackles//
    //Love lingers/
    /In the lips/
    /Of hope/
    /The moon/
    /The sun/
    / And the sky worship/
    /And recite/
    /Recitals/
    /Songs/
    /Gloomy//
    .
    .
    .
    /Love is a forbidden (forgotten) luxury/
    And hope,
    A stoic hindrance
    And a barrier for
    Death.
    ©a_franteen_writer

  • a_franteen_writer 4w

    #epistrophe #wod #pod #miraquill #ceesrepsts #writersnetwork
    .
    Long time no see. I hope y'all doing well. Well this poems as many meanings and interpretations. And I would love to hear yours too....
    Much love love��

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    *Oblivion*

    i want to dream hard and real
    but the strokes of time are never gentle.
    .
    as long as i pass smiles
    across dandelions fields
    for some people to find love
    to make them believe in the
    illusion of harmony
    to bury the silent chaos
    seeping out of the cracks and crevices
    of burned houses and
    devilish eyes,

    as long as i nurse days and months and years to sleep
    for the others to walk in a walk-in paradise
    and me
    dreading a living nightmare

    as long as i hide the secrets of my heart

    to walk over the thorns
    for others to walk on roses
    to scare the somber moon
    to avoid it's silent coaxing
    to kill the mockingbird
    sitting on the branch of a tree
    on a low rising hill
    singing Beethoven continuously
    over a lost unrequited love
    to tear the heart open to assure myself of the presence of frail emotions
    to live and grow apple trees
    of stories forbidden to people
    who were lied to
    about the god's graces
    from false prophets
    who spoke how devotion to them
    wasn't a form of slavery
    but
    a way of life.
    .
    but
    .
    as long as i give birth to felonies
    of hope, faith and belief
    and become a bit preachy
    over squashed lives of ants
    and the reason why they mattered

    as long as i drug others
    to follow their hearts
    when they get lost ---

    i shall continue living and be allowed to dream in my solitude
    and be allowed to live in the society.


    the words of dismay
    that no one wants to hear,
    the angry cries of unborn children
    that no one wants to hear,
    the sos calls of the stranded on a lost island
    that no one wants to hear,
    the eye deafening silent; visible screams
    that no one wants to hear,
    believe me, I've heard it all.
    .
    and i wish on every fallin' star
    that such tremendous pain and voices
    you will never have to hear
    or else you'll never be able to see
    the sun and the moon ever again,
    with the same eyes you once previously had.
    .....
    **the eyes of oblivion and innocence**
    ©a_franteen_writer

  • a_franteen_writer 5w

    Feathers

    Feathers above
    Feathers below
    Feathers in the heart
    Where they grow
    Old like the winter's
    Sullen moon
    With a twinkle
    To which each and every one
    Swoons
    But my heart is moved
    And it never settles
    For it has been shaken
    Only to be beaten to death.
    ©a_franteen_writer