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  • aditii_ 11w

    *yellow is also stated as a colour of betrayal. (negative way)

    TW : rape, blood.

    #left #colour maybe :*

    @/writersnetwork thank you so much! ��

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    Brown sugar cupboard

    a pale palette, yellow teeth patches,
    groomed teddy bear, raped till death,
    fallen shingle, stored as a gem,
    crumbled bedsheet, with menstruation stains,
    a cupboard holds so much of pain,
    how is it possible, to look at it with naked eyes?

    a lurking silence, standing infront of cupboard mirror,
    wild cocaine dose, battling with morning caffeine,
    the yellow smile of betrayal, glittering in sun dissolved fields;
    sweat soaked in pupil, it burns but not more than threating afternoons,
    palatte shades, divulging black's of every colour,
    count yellow into it, who is scratching dried tears

    cotton clouds emerging from brown crochet bear,
    the dead blood of assault numb with shock,
    hands ripped with red scratches,
    eyes glued with celling above,
    the walls frozen by the violent movie scene that passed away,
    blood and screams buried in coffin, with the guilt left in heart

    souvenirs collected, from every corner of house,
    why can't you leave it? this place was bitter to you;
    piano notes, banging head on doors,
    “don't leave” they scream, but the bag is already kicked out,
    harassing night captured in camera roll, to blackmail in morning,
    the threats sinking in and writing a poetry

    small bedsheet, laying dead,
    of pain under stomach, which is crawling till face,
    complex structures of universe,
    forming a chamber to store depressed cells,
    the constant movement of earth,
    ticking like a clock hanging on wall,
    crumbs of last year weekends, stored in a bell jar for today,
    but sadly there is nothing left,
    except a mere molecule from the blood you shed

    brown sugar cupboard, opening door to pessimistic days,
    every single thing, tasting like lemon pickle,
    grief stored in that cupboard, pouring warm melted sugar on heart,
    everything is deserted, just because of a wood storage kept.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 12w

    evenings to that poet

    when the golden in the sky,
    starts diluting in blues of sea,
    vintage quill, craves the chronic condition of that poets heart.

    the chaotic ballads sing a song of praise,
    when the golden in the sky,
    take a vow to never leave that poets hand.

    while counting the worst days,
    a pat from behind, on shoulder reminds,
    when the golden in the sky,
    rises into a tide, it can make a poet write a poem again.

    everything will be fine,
    those crippled wires will be fixed in you,
    when the golden in sky, will find it's way.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 12w

    it's pathetic.

    #patheticfallency not sure honestly. :3

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    Goodbyes

    They stay like a moss on a damp heart. pirouetting envelopes lying scattered on the floor. shining dim light, blurs the vision of you waving your hand to me. fullstops putting a barrier to my lips. the words choking as if bullets are shot into my oesophagus. they aren’t easy. even if it’s the last time I am meeting you, the words will form a graveyard in my stomach dying one by one. I ain’t that clichè sad movie which will have a happy ending. goodbye’s will stay, if your words will.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 12w

    I am a kiddo. •3•

    #onomatopoeia

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    Rain

    when I look at the numb sky,
    I see rain patter on my face,
    leaves in the barren backyard chatter, how i dance,
    embracing every droplet from blueberry clouds,
    heartfelt shadows from banyan tree,
    chuckle at my kiddish twirl,
    the nature whispers my every move,
    with the splash of first rain.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 13w

    #kwansaba

    thank you so much @/writersnetwork for your re-post and EC. ��

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    Discovery of metaphor fossils!

    dense alphabets colouring skies for this discovery,
    words strumming ballads to rejoice dusky fossils,
    poetries and evenings sipping sun holding expectations;
    curious poets persisting with every single fossils,
    identifying peculiar characteristic potrayed in this art,
    the laboratory filled with wishpers chattering about it,
    a dead metaphor fossil blooming wider perspective.

    –one of those curious poet's
    aditi

  • aditii_ 13w

    I am bad at proses,
    and if I write one,
    they decay into
    stories which never existed.
    ©aditi

  • aditii_ 13w

    it's getting hard for me to write these days.
    :/

    #spring

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    Sometimes I feel like a spring, to whom no one wants to stay.

    that withered house,
    where cherry blossom
    poetries still bloom,
    I stay there;

    a spring breeze
    brushes all the pain away,
    leaving the residue of incoming summer;

    when I pick-up the call,
    other side boiling frustration pours on me,
    a random verse I scribble everyday,
    the fragrance of it,
    buries in choatic crowd glowing infront of my eyes;

    April days, kissing baby blooms,
    I stand there with a smile,
    on which other's frown;
    Am I a piece of curse,
    whom only spring pamper,
    and monsoon will lets bloom?

    a spring comes and goes,
    vibrates love on my upset soul,
    but still wherever I go,
    I am considered to be a spring,
    whom no one wants to love.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 14w

    मिश्री or mishri : sugar candy.

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    मिश्री

    Pink brushes of rose petals on her bare arms, taste like sugar candy pearl. the sleepless nights, legs folded, sit under the dark crater under eyes.

    hands counting moments of past ballads written on crinkled sheets. bloated left cheekbone, hiding a fair smile 'neath the wool carpet. a clichè love story in the needle hole, passing thread of shyness.

    potato skin eye, scattered in room, searching incarnation of voice’s once cupboard creaked. deep fried, wrinkled oiled hair hanging like grape curls on the wall of her collarbones. grandma’s lap sleep sound on the hymns of lullaby that afternoon.

    “mama! mama!” once echoed the hall. toes moving to-and-fro in search. magnified memories, with tiny roots of a blooming marigold, in the restless garden.

    days like ’s melody whispers silent song, that birds chirp during heavy sky gives birth to a new sun. a slight glow of newborn baby, creases glued eyes. and just like some days feel.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 15w

    Sentence - what is the colour of hope?
    Word - Night.

    #question

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    What is the colour of hope?

    Hope is a colourless canvas, you yourself or someone else paints it for you. it's a blank sheet of life where you stitch stories, your stories give you hope.

    Hope might not have a colour but it has connections. those connections vibrate colours of rainbow to you.

    Sometimes, night feels like a colour of hope on my grey palette.
    it paints the constellations buried in sky's womb. the twinkling stars, twirl on the beat of night blooming flowers.

    Whereas everyone considers night as the dark hours, my heart says, it's a fallen leaf of blooming star. I cry in the darkness, and that sky hears me. The cosy moon gleams to just make me smile. Night is not only a hope, but an incarnation of my mother's face.

    The night radiates hope.
    darkness is the colour of hope.

  • aditii_ 15w

    repost from yesterday.

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    Straight lines and spirals

    Fragments of carved manuscript on a wooden piece of heart, replenished old scars;

    a ring of fire,
    spilled darkness over the years ago,
    mashing giggling eyes, under the barefoot of strange time;

    The stars over the dusky sky, started melting the happiness of a human's alive,
    and suddenly bones started getting deficient of smiles

    only buried sadness over the atmosphere,
    craving for peace,
    the bloated cheeks splattering words of hatred,
    a toxicity inside human settling like oil over pan

    the ancestors searching for thier innocent kids,
    who are now blazing in the fire heroin high,
    a hangover dance of not easing oneself,
    but pouring wax, over deep wounds

    the softness of pebbles in ancient period,
    has turned it rigid feather,
    an illicit bond of human with forgery has started,
    with this evolution

    an evolution of straight lines to spiral tales have started,
    the pothole of falling in cruelty is digging its way.
    ©aditii_