Somewhere in this city, I live. The house within which I live is not made up of tenuous blocks of happiness but hatred and anxiety. In winters if feels like a freezing ice, not willing to melt the pain but it can't compare to the coldness in my scorching heart. ' ℎ ℎ ℎ
Depression is served in plates as meal for me each morning. They force me to gulp it down the throat until the realisation hits me and I become anxious. ℎ, ℎ ℎ
I know there is a hope - a hope to know what days of joy feel like. I've only heard the shrieks and cries in the silence of people living in this house. I want to know what happiness sounds like. ℎ ℎ . ℎ ℎ ℎ?
I've lost the count of times people asked me "Are you okay?" and the number of times I replied, "Yes, I am." Is there anybody who knows the answer of this question without even asking it? Is there anybody who can wipe off my tears better? because I'm too lubugurious and indolent to wipe my own tears. ℎ ℎ ℎ ℎ ? ' . ~trishna♡ --------------------------------------------------------------------- #poetry#poem#englishpoetry#longpoetry#miraquill@miraquill@writersnetwork#sadpoetry#sad#darkpoetry
It is raining here, after such a long time. Under the rain, I break apart shedding tears. Is there anybody who could wipe off my eyes better?
How many rainy days would it take to wash this grief off my heart? How many cold drops of rain would it take to remind me that I'm burning like ardent flame? I only realise the rain is cold because my inner fires burn fiercely.
Rain, do me a favour. Come when bodies turn into ash, when the tears have dried and bodies need a wash. ~t
I see him sitting in the corner of the classroom, fidgeting his fingers and filling the void between them by intertwining them with pens.
I see him sitting alone by the window in bar after school while I make my way to home. He looks out of the window at the radiant sun like he wants to be the sun, and perish all the darkness which resides in him. But he can't.
He tries to write his poems by mixing colours, love, and glitters yet they look like they are made up of plethora of broken prayers, solitude and torn letters.
He thinks he's worthless but I don't. I think he's the one who brings warmth of sun on the frore land, just by smiling and gently touching his brown hair which keeps hanging on his forehead and conceals frown he's making every time he's confused and lost.
On some days, when I'm not a poet, I curl up on the cold floor so that I can cry shamelessly. I'm besieged by pastel pink colored walls but all I see is blood red. I keep staring at those walls even though I'm scared of them. I scream and cry as much louder as I can to stop all of this. I cry because I'm sick of crying. Sometimes, I reach a point where I'm scared of my own screams.
On some days, thorns wrap my heart and I can't scream or write about the unmovable pain. I feel the anger burning inside me and it pounds in my chest, throbs on my lips and boils in my mind. The anger inside me roars like ocean waves crashing against the shore. The only thing I can do is shout and let my anger out until my throat is raw.
One some days, I don't want to write about the loneliness in my life, because I'm too tired. Also, who reads the poems of a poet who spend her life writing about death and being friendly to loneliness? I go out, seeking for ecstasy but suddenly I feel alone. I feel alone infront of the huge crowd.
I don't always write about you and me. I write about the people who are deeply in love, people I wish to meet or people who don't even exist. But on some days, I just watch those people, sometimes in my imaginary world, in parks or in books. I contemplate that if we both had loved each other a little more, I would have written more about you and these poems wouldn't have been so sappy.
On some days, when I'm not a poet, I'm the poetry penned somewhere in the dilapidated journals, a zephyr blowing someone's hair and reminding them of their love, a wilted rose beside a grave, which withers daily like the memories of the person in that grave, or a song with no lyrics which is sung by a boy to his beloved. ~t ---------------------------------------------------------
Know that his emotions can be heightened at any time and his rage his redder than the love he ever felt, he won't hesitate for a moment to kill you. So, don't be too fragile or too strong.
He has a cold dead heart. He will burn in the love of your sunlight, your form of loving him is to pour yellows and shines but those are his biggest fears. So love him in all the possible darks. Fill love in the darkness and let him wear it as a locket that protects him.
He says he loves immortality but deep down he doesn't. He has roamed the streets of both euphoria and melancholy. He has felt pain and love before and there's just too much that time can't erase. Oh how wrong he was to think that immortality meant never dying.
Don't draw your love stake through his weak heart. You will destroy him. Rather stake love in his fangs, his strengths. Then watch his dead soul bleed love for you.
In the daylight, invite him to rest in the coffin of your fears. He will drown and still breathe in the lake of your fears. He will embrace them. So, feed him the veins of your fears.
His high senses hear everytime your heart breathes for him. Let your heart scream the words your afraid to. Let the screaming heal his wounds.
The taste of lust for the blood, he knows. The lust of your soul for his love, he knows. So let him rust in the flames of your lust. Let him burn in the ignites of it.
Care for him so much, that he would love you more than he loves blood. Know that only immortals know the meaning of forever and will love you for the lifetime.
If tomorrow starts without me, and if my body is not here, if the sound of my words refuse to come out to reach your ears, if my eyes refuse to look deep into your eyes, if my hands refuse to fill the void between your fingers, do not worry then, For I will be always here, in the coloured pages of your heart, With name of mine written on them.
If tomorrow starts without me, Tell my mother I loved her so much, but I couldn't say a last beautiful goodbye to her. She will smile and tell you, you were the last person I loved. Tell my father I had always tried to make him proud and happy, but I couldn't make myself live longer and happy. He will smile and tell you, you were the reason I always had a smile on my face. Tell my brother even though I used to annoy him, he was the only person who could cope with my foolishness and sarcastic comments. He will smile and tell you, you were the 2nd person in this world I used to love to hate. And at last tell yourself, the girl you used to love with an intense feeling is here - in the pages of your journal, in the romantic songs of your Playlist, in the thousand winds that blow and caress your hair, in the droplets of gentle autumn rain, and at last in your heart.
If tomorrow starts without me love, do not let the tears flow away, just wipe them, and smile everyday. Promise me you will accept the fate and live your life like it used to be. If the heavens are for real, know that I will look for you always. And If the Gods are for real, know that You and I were the best creatures ever created by him.
With everyday under protected skies, we come across some traitors lives. Promised solution to all complexes, riches beyond faint heart perplexes. Adoration by fame benediction, bargains without guilt affliction. The patriot and his free ticket vote, righteousness that need some promote. Fees for the clamorous priest, words of comfort in the least. Stones and graves as memorandum, dust to dust and its bleeding phantom. Bubbles to buy in ounces of gold, it’s the story as package to be sold. The price to know God for asking, resuming whole souls tasking. Imitation of immortality without death, lyrics and rhymes already in breath. Scientific prophesies as politic conclusion, sweetest moments of delusion. Medias senses of what is right in time, feeding the truth through a costly plastic frame. Enslaving oneself by far more credit, for the children to know its inherit. The dying dream with its inspiration, ceased moments lost in translation. The placid and self contained condition, takes forms in transparent definition. As term-less feast of our content, souls are more then body meant. Wasted time in displeased self-assertion, no values after deeds in resignation. The greatest tragedy of the world in confusion, the lack of awareness in spiritual evolution
An unexpected one pod. Thank you so much @miraquill@writersnetwork for the love. And thank you all the beautiful writers for being here and giving it read and appreciating it. Thank you so much, love you all. ❤❤
Staring at the ceiling of the living room while all my strength to get up lies on the sofa next to me watching 'the wolf of wall street' for the hundredth time because I am too indolent to move near the DVD player on the table lying right below the TV merely two steps away from me. My eyes barely moving from the ceiling to the window with the beautiful sunset view that normal people wish to enjoy on a sunday evening by the beach. I look at it as if it has the answers to all my questions. I look at it as if it is the most beautiful thing I'll ever see. I look at it as if it's poetic to stare at. But it's nothing, it's just blank white ceiling with a fan in motion like the earth above a motionless creature like me.
Staring at the sky on this starry night with a soft touch of clouds among the pastel blues, I think of how my past was happy. And now I walk in my desolate present which is not the future I built in my past. These stars telling me about all the dreams I had in their lap. They tell me about the bravest battles I fought with the demons living under my bed. They tell me how I danced with them and smiled. And they tell me about all the metaphors I weaved like those constellations to tell the world who I was. I talk to them as if they are my oldest friends. I talk to them as if they are what my bones are made of. I talk to them with each drop of hope in my blood as if they are made to fill the void of my soul.
Staring at you while you're asleep in my lap, on another insomniac night, I drown in my love for you. I think of how someday you'll leave me again like you always do, like we never happened and how your absence will be filled with hurt more than anything else painful. I think of taking a polaroid to keep that moment as a warm memory for cold nights I will have to spend alone. The wind asks me who will I be when you're not near. I answer, I'll be a hopeless lover, an immortal poet, drunk on melancholic metaphors written in the name of silent love and its disastrous alter ego-heartbreak. And I look at you as if you're all my poetries in human form. I look at you as if you're my last hope when my house is on fire. I look at you as a curious child looks at glowing fireflies in the dark woods. I look at you and I feel peaceful in every inch of my body. I look at you and my love for you starts oozing out of my heart and heals all my wounds. I look at you and a tear rolls down my cheek and I never look at you again.
Who would have thought that a Ferris wheel ride will turn your life around? And one day, you woke up feeling like a stranger in your own body. Suddenly, you're walking in someone else's shoes and cotton candies don't taste the same anymore.
Everything is overwhelming. It's like you're trapped in a bubble where fairy tales don't exist and monsters are real. And it terrifies you. But you know you have to deal with it. There's no simply escaping it.
l know you miss a lot of things, how life used to be carefree. And if there's a time machine somewhere, you'd happily ride back to a childhood spent under the sun, where life tasted like popsicles and lemonade. Back to the times when you shower love like confetti and tooth fairies visit you while you were sleeping.
As you get older, you realize you can't save the world by lunchtime. You're tangled in a web sketched in sharpies and erasers aren't enough to correct one's mistakes.
Life is strange in a familiar way. It happens as seasons do.You survive one after another. You grow in between full stops and question marks.
Smile and face the sun. Believe me, better days are yet to come. And when it happens, all the loose connections from the past to the present will fit like jigsaw pieces. In time, everything will make perfect sense.
Lilacs emanated wafts of dawn barricades and battles blitzed the barques by torpedoes, blued the seas and skies bemoaned on the departure of peace and the paucity of boneyards lulled this game of destruction and pain, why death was stuck with penury?
Cacoethes for hurting sentiments engulfed in crepuscular arcades teleporting the souls in abyss to commemorate with them later choosing money and diamonds in illusions considering oneself God, to say that was sarcasm cause death seems inescapable
And then chalks smelt into poets carving nature into highways and anecdotes of despondency as to rebel the rainbows and phantasm to decayed ashes of one's reality till life they speak with silence of souls through their quills, run into deathbeds and eulogies only verity
to be swoon by mounds of bones and bodies the highways of death rung the taciturn passengers unto its snapping in concealment 'to be not to be' hypnotized them with its hymns and garrotted the breathing blossom named life inside them a full stop to rains and heartbeats