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  • ablaze_writer 4w

    What makes me a poet?

    Spring blossoms filled with rock music, a heartbreak decorated in metaphors stronger than twilight's and stardust in some stranger's eyes.

    Narcissism about own incapacity, a bird flying in the lone night, hot coffee dropping it's temperature just around the right time.

    Jude's self negligence in little life, Kafka's excessive reading rides and wishes of being one of them just for a single moment of rhyme.


  • ablaze_writer 4w

    Wishing upon dandelions...

    My brother a pharmacist by profession enjoys making furniture's on the weekends. I look at him passionately cutting through old rustic pieces and make something brand new. Something whose dimensions and patterns have changed altogether from what it was just a few hours ago or from the start of the world.
    And I wish he could do just same to me. Take all my Insecure thoughts, self loathe and cut them all into molecules so small that they never again pass by each other. I wish him to turn me into a dandelion~

    Stubborn, Happy, Bastardous and unable to kill cause even when I die-

    I want to be full of wishes and fly.

    Fly across the fields where wood is cut and put into sheets, over the shops where they are sold and bought with wishes to make homes which are happy and not void. Over to the little girl who is watching her brother make another set of wooden artifact.
    Over and over, again and again until I see in the mirror and know the reasons of
    W H Y.


  • ablaze_writer 5w

    Being Human

    Someday, somewhere
    When the sun sets and
    the person in the mirror
    starts to rip apart all the layers,
    they have put on the real self
    and interrogates the what-if's of being oneself.

    Now & here
    I write this poem dedicated to them
    That even with all the layers they are still themselves,
    For the person in mirror hasn't killed oneself,
    That they still break, laugh, live and love
    and that is what it means to
    Be A HUMAN.


  • ablaze_writer 5w

    Cherry trees

    First love blossomed under cherry trees,
    Heavy rains bleed the love poetry,
    Now it's autumn to harvest those toxic deeds,

    Again, I await another first love under cherry tree.

  • ablaze_writer 5w

    I can never give you my h(e/u)(a/rt)

    I can never love you with my full heart~

    for it was broken and burnt under the rage of my mother's disappointment ,
    (Ashes still in her favorite pot for maybe I was her best creation!!)
    for it was crushed again and again under the pressure of proving my gender not being a mistake from my father,
    (Patriarchy devours brain of humans alongiwth hearts of girls filled with ambitions.)
    for it was put into a frame named under some degree my parents were proud to have under my name.
    (Just like a wedding ring diamond to assure the materialistic love is forever a problem.)

    Tell me how you will love someone who has past written in white ink naked to her microscopic eyes, never finding balance and healing this world has had offered. For there is still blood in my mouth from all the times I have held back into an argument with my other self who has slowly vanished into oblivion writing me letters of self help. Sometimes, I had wished to have a different set of parents under the pretense they might be better but deep down under the stardust of spineless conscious I knew nothing could change.

    So, tell me will you name me in your love filled poems not as an arch nemesis but a little girl with love in her heart flourished the world?

    And if you can't then let's not talk about love for that is the metaphor I'd like to ignore. If you can't name this anonymous resolve let's go separate ways like hope and orphanage. For I am a sinner who will break your heart into another thousand pieces which you won't even write poetry about. That's the reason

    I can never give you my h(e/u)(a/rt).


  • ablaze_writer 5w

    A Paradox

    My body rectangle shaped,
    Accompanied by insecurity,
    Remembering solace,
    Loved by melancholy.


  • ablaze_writer 7w

    Of all the daydreams I had

    My mother takes a peek at my poems
    Left half written, without any conclusion.
    She sighs looking at the half baked dreams I left in the black ink and stare into void trying to become one.

    My father wants to talk about all the things I love, not knowing there is no more motivation behind all the things I once wanted to become.

    My reflections stare back at me from the mirror reminding of childhood which was lonesome.Interrogating me about
    All the sins and prayers becoming one?

    I look at my journal,
    Papers filled with memories (Precious one's),
    Some good and some hysterics one's,
    And I want to write again,
    Repenting all the moments when I wasn't me.
    Apologising to all the dreams, turned into


  • ablaze_writer 7w

    I would like to be the paradox adorned on the skin of your throat,
    every time you told me about the poem of love.

  • ablaze_writer 7w

    The Sound of Rain

    I am a dream still dreaming.

    Sometimes I think about the Me who resides in my body, who instills all these thoughts in me and I rerun all of them like a nostalgic film over and over again until something new comes up and it is time to put an end to these cycles.
    But do they really end?

    The answer should be within me but it surprises me that even after owning all these thoughts I have no idea how they end or just disappear under the titles of routines in my daily life. Not to complicate things I wrote them in a journal decorated with withered flowers, old love letters and promises to get better.
    Nevertheless those journals now lie secretly in the cabinet under the window wrapped in coffee brown texture, away from the sight of bystanders .
    When I was five sitting in veranda at my grandparents whenever it rained there used to be a ritual to write your worries on paper turn it into a boat and let it float.
    For rain used to be my favourite season. The paper boats taking away all my worries and bad gestures, the days I used to smile when the
    Sound of rain hit the same window.

    Now I am 23 and rains have long forgotten about the worries I put them under, fo now the thoughts of adult won't settle on papers. The poems of over thinking cross over the limits of patience. Sometimes I am happy and life seems easy but the next moment I am an unknown stranger.

    And today as it rains again, I want to be forgiven for all the worries I put it under unknowingly which weren't even real.
    And as it rains again, I open my journal to write another cycle which seems to long for the new season.

  • ablaze_writer 13w

    Does this make sense? I don't think so but what else in life has a meaning which you understand fully.

    #anaphora @writersnetwork

    Read More

    I want to

    I want to write a poem about sunflowers and stars, mending their ways to make sense that this cosmos is indeed a good place to survive even if sometimes it is dark.

    I want to write a poem about my first love song, for a lover who no long has a name and memories from past.

    I want to write a poem about the ancient history and tombstones which once were my favourite thing to learn about ironically now stand as a metaphor for my own town.

    I want to write a poem about my own heart filled up with anxiety I think I might die.

    I want to write a poem about death for it might really be sunflowers and stardust connecting me to her mirth.