I shall wait for your spring, Serendipity.

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  • adamantquill 2d

    Sometimes words dwell in the womb of welkin that now lies under the ground of churned hopes, graveled beneath the sorrows, aiding through oxymorons. ��

    Argosy- a merchant ship

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    Fabricating oxymorons

    They will ask you to drown yourself
    in bittersweet dreams and passion
    catering to your fervent growing age;
    burst the huge helium balloons that
    promised to take you to your dreams
    above the clouds and pull you down
    to the ground as you ricochet over the
    land adorned with permanent bruises.
    All you are left is with discombobulate,
    torn between chasing the dreams further
    or let it go that hurts the bleeding wounds.
    Your perfervid flame keeps burning
    consuming pieces of your soul while
    you lie in weariness with vacant hopes.

    It is a beautiful, heartfelt lovestory
    to be beheld that could possibly be
    printed over pages of an author that
    seek tales walking around the streets,
    or on park bench having carved names
    of two lovers. Likewise, the two old lovers
    that nurtured their love at young age,
    sworn loyalties and vows of never-ending
    love with two rings binding strings on
    ring finger and wedded. The forever was
    meant to be short-lived in brumous destiny
    when illness decided to wage walls of
    life and death between the two souls.

    That homeless vagabond in a dimension
    of poetry who sleeps under the blanket
    of worded pages, the dern boscage of
    metaphors sheltering on clouded days
    with heavy rainfall or scorching heat
    piercing, burning skin like demon's flame.
    The coruscate sky lends an abode
    on days when those hands are imbrued
    in ink from murdering those innocent
    metaphors in torn pages in an attempt
    to spew out the words of dismal grim and
    distorted thoughts lost in prismatic world,
    though roofless yet a discontented haven.

    The paper ship of childhood imagined
    to be sailing through the white clouds,
    amidst the blue sky. Not so childish
    but an arduous desire of finding the
    Neverland with treasures to be shoveled
    and digged out of the mage soil.
    Still the same desire inhabits in the
    grown body, just a change in destination.
    The argosy is meant to sail the sky
    that abodes the ferver dreams and goals
    to reach with every streak of blood, sweat
    and tear drenching the draped body that
    was never self taught to give up but to
    keep sailing and flying until the end is met.

  • adamantquill 3d

    Maybe someday I will fill that endless sky with my endless poem recollecting every first time possible.


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    Every new day is a first time.

    When was the first time
    I realised I have invisible scars
    over my soul? Maybe when
    I was growing up to break down
    into pieces because of the
    streaks of uncertainties made
    their way into my life, unheralded.

    When was the last time
    I breathe incandescent life
    and not my dreary verses?
    Maybe that fourteenth autumn of
    this newly hung up calender
    of second millennium, blooming
    passion over the pedestal of dreams.

    When was the first time
    I gaped at that endless sky?
    Maybe when my eyes were running
    through the skysill to find the end
    so that I could go sit at the edge
    of the horizon and weave poetries
    of meeting with the stars.

    When was the last time
    I put and solved all the puzzle
    pieces of my heart? Oh just
    last night when I wrote a poem
    where each word resonated the
    ramshackle pieces, filling the
    voids and meanings to obscurity.

    When was the first time
    of every first time where I
    succeeded or failed,
    smiled or cried,
    fell or picked me up,
    lived or died?
    It seems, every new day is a first time
    and this could be an eternal poetry to write.

  • adamantquill 2w

    How can a person know everything
    at eighteen, but nothing at twenty-two?
    -Taylor Swift


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    Because we won't know everything.

    When you are a mess and so are your thoughts is when you realise how hard it is to shape every emotions in words to either speak out or lay bare with ink on pages. And admitting to mistakes is like giving in to that alter ego. But my beloved diary, I know you will restrain from judgements regarding them, won't you? So maybe I'll confess just to you as of now and perhaps later to others when my alter ego gives in. I will try my best to mould every bit of emotions that surrounded my mistakes to give it a legible form...

    If I am to choose my first mistake from that bag full of mistakes to write one, it will be this when I blindly trusted a few chosen ones out of all. Trusting was never easy, trusting is still not easy. But once upon a time when pride was what I had for a little group of so-called friends that later turned into a miserable, sad ending that my past self never dreamt of in her near future. Trusted a bit too much to be left all alone and abandoned. Regret is not what I have though as I still cherish the good old times, regret is what I have that I probably could have turn things in a better way if I was a bit mindful, bit mature.

    Second one would be my foolish past self believing that my life will be sorted by now. Oh she trusted me a bit too much with that, put a great lot of pressure on me but all I am right now is a crumpled paper of an incomplete poetry waiting to finish it someday when I have found the right words to fit and fill in the voids. She, a naive young girl believed things will be easy as long as she continues to work hard and believe upon herself. Hey, I still believe in you and myself and don't you worry, I will fulfill the dreams that we dreamt on sleepless nights, you will definitely get to see a happier version of your future self. Believe in me a bit longer, will you?

    My third mistake would be about once believing that my mistakes are a taint on my soul and I'll never be able to move on from them and grow. The hate and torment I have projected towards myself for making mistakes in the past, for blaming that naive soul within me for everything that went wrong, for believing that maybe I am not good enough, for feeling unworthy. Perhaps this is one of my biggest mistakes I have come across. Because we won't know everything that is to come with time and how we will react. Now, I withhold and keepsake every mistakes from my past buried within me to remind myself how far I have come, how much I have learnt and how much I grew. And I continue to make mistakes even now and learn from them, perhaps I will keep making mistakes till my dying day and learn something on my death bed before my last breath.

  • adamantquill 3w

    It would hurt less if we could fall gently like those fallen leaves, isn't it?


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    Fallen leaves

    Happiness feels like
    falling leaves on a windy day,
    some freshly forlorn moments
    that left too early to even leave
    it's mark, some parched like
    dead old memories that clinches
    to heart until it can't anymore,
    some gets crumpled beneath the
    feet of cruelty and malevolence,
    some gets picked to be cherished
    by some kind hearts and some
    just takes off alongside the wind
    to explore outcomes of self acceptance.

  • adamantquill 3w

    My words were the caged birds
    inside a golden cage,
    all flummoxed and in agony.

    I was a prisoner of writhing pain
    and I prisoned the soulful words
    of my verses in a brumous archive.

    My wily words grew up to
    lure me to set them free,
    for they promised to heal me.

    Upon setting free, my words turned
    into an elixir river of verses
    filling the ocean of poetries.

    They soothe my tormented heart,
    array my naked scarred soul, sew my wounds
    and paint them with concoction of serene faith.

    And so I stitched my words into a few monostich
    and then stitched a few monostich into a poetry.


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    Stitched words in monostich.

    My words were the Alchemist while
    I was just a tarnished hope.

  • adamantquill 3w

    My words silently keepsake my buried memories and secrets.


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    Silent voices.

    My quiescent memories murmur
    silent melodies that echo through
    the scarred walls that entrap
    stolen stars from the night sky.
    I silently hum lullabies as my
    teardrops play symphonies over
    the keys of my broken piano.

    I wonder if I have ever known
    muted silence as felt by a
    deaf person who has known
    how deep and dead a silence
    can be since their childhood.
    They were born in a world that
    lacks canorous hymns and sound.

    The years of my life that were
    claimed by teenhood when
    I assumed to have been in love
    in loud and clear voices of my heart.
    Now that I think, I was perhaps in
    love with the idea of falling in love.
    Present self now silently seeks it.

    Silence is feared by every soul
    crying in the midst of dead night
    while gulping back the loud voices
    of heart breaking in myriad pieces,
    as the palm presses hard against
    the parched lips to prevent noise
    of the drumming pain within.

    Silence is loved by every soul
    that has exhausted all the emotions
    and spends time staring into the
    deep infinity of muted darkness.
    It is a voyage of self into
    nothingness that quells desires
    and yields humdrum void inside.

  • adamantquill 5w

    ..until my soul heals.


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    I await the last unhopeful night.

    When heart lies in vacant hopes
    of euphonous promises,
    I stroll on roads of emptiness
    that beguiles as false happiness.
    I sway with the wind of autumn,
    moving towards the winter.

    I look for that fabled
    four clover leaf I read in folklores
    that supposedly brings fortune to
    any unfortunate man who looks
    for goodwill in adverse misfortunes.
    Oh! but my mirror world falls apart
    instead in thousand shards.

    Leaves me wondering how many
    more hopeless nights I got to imbibe.
    But I have this faithful belief
    of how bad it can be, something
    good must be on its way,
    just stuck in some traffic perhaps.

    Until then let me cherish a painting of
    four clover leaf from my childhood.
    If I am ever to find it, I will book press it
    and then blow it away with the wind
    that may carry it to the person who
    wholeheartedly awaits it.

    "Because, I am rather busy gazing
    at the night sky to look for a
    shooting star to wish upon, for
    the last unhopeful night to come"

  • adamantquill 6w

    If only escaping didn't feel so transient
    and rather a beautiful delusion turned reality.


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    you don't
    wanna feel it.

    you escape
    it through laughs.

  • adamantquill 6w

    Maybe, maybe not.

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    Perhaps I am bizarrely normal.

    I seek silence amidst the
    bustling crowd and some
    hustles in the lone quiescence.
    I paint monochrome sunrays
    in the lack of vibrance,
    sometimes my final
    fullstop begins a new story
    of some old memories.

    The inflammable cold
    casts on me freezing
    my thoughts, igniting the
    sanity that I caged within,
    leaving me with ashes of
    insane memories, cadre to
    dreary verses filling the voids
    of absurd sanity that I fake.

    I sometimes have no choice
    but to wage harmonious war
    against my own reflection
    that blindfolds herself
    negating the goodness that
    lies in certain things, unnamed
    and to defeat her who bargains for
    solace with inner demons.

    The sky gravitates me
    toward itself, even more than
    the land where I belong.
    If I could step on the wind,
    I would run barefooted towards
    that blue horizon that is not blue.
    If I could, I would take you with me
    to a sky drive, borrowing a cloud.

  • adamantquill 6w

    Oh dear sky,

    You are the home to my
    sojourn poetries that left the
    crevices of my heart and
    chose to dwell in your haven.
    And my fervent dreams chase you
    beyond the clouds only to be
    struck by your thunderous roar.
    I stretch out my hands with a hope
    to reach you someday and
    to listen to your innumerable
    hidden stories in your womb.
    I imbibe the azure hue that
    pour in my elysian poems,
    I paint the twilight sky over
    my crimson heart that brew
    crestfallen verses of serene sunsets
    and I camouflage my rueful soul
    in the quintessence of the night sky.
    I am a vagabond and you are
    the roof and my abode.