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  • aditii_ 19w

    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_ 20w

    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_ 20w

    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_

  • aditii_ 20w

    silence.

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    I, a single word(letter),
    expressing at its best,
    a silence
    trying to take a stand.

    the feeding home,
    slicing phrases, frosting mayhem, crushing dreams, under cerulean sky,
    'I' ploughing soul out of flesh,
    I, is the reason. I, is the reason.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 20w

    there’s a wildfire.
    caused by a spark.
    plants survive.
    ground leaps in heat.
    yet none speaks.

  • aditii_ 20w

    *true events*

    this poem talks about a cobbler.

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    greased hands

    saturday wild afternoon, and his sweaty palms,
    with a wrinkled smile residing on his face;
    the komorebi from the peepal tree kissing his dusky refreshing face,
    the sky at time looks at him, sheds few waves of tenderness;

    on a jute knitted sack,
    he leans his back against the footpath wall;
    i watch him everyday from the opposite side,
    either him cleaning his tools,
    or stitching shoes;
    without any complain,
    he still lives in his small little adobe,
    what a man you have given birth to o'god! with simplicity and merely any expectations;

    freezing winter or melancholic monsoon,
    the hands still serves, for his customers;
    barely three-four customer's a day,
    50-100 rupees, he can make out his everyday earning;

    eyes sunk into the damaged sole of shoe,
    his hands sewing peculiarly,
    mouth blabbering to nearby shopkeeper,
    chit-chating something, which unknowingly makes me smile;

    even in the hot summer days,
    he waits for someone to come,
    and get their shoe's repaired by him,
    so that he can put a bandage,
    on the wounded bare toes of a stranger;

    bare earning he does from blooming sun to dissolved sunset,
    when he counts his two-pennies of hardwork at night with the stars, he yet finds it enough;
    the humanity in him, gives half to a stray,
    a happiness always on his glittering face;

    never afraid of eating food with the same hand,
    from which he greased his fingers on a dirty shoe,
    just a heart of kindness, which exists with plenty of love.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 21w

    my 11:11 wish,
    may cancer patients recover soon and live a healthy life again!♾️❤️

    from a doctor's POV.
    i am sorry, I wasn't meant to write this, instead something else. :)

    thank you so much @writersnetwork
    ��❤️

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    A family I had

    In between the hospital rush,
    my eyes saw
    something which I can never forget,
    bare scalps, last stage, third ward,
    one on wheelchair, other fragile legs with support and other one on a stretcher.

    reminds me of thier old days,
    in which they shared smiles,
    to my emptiness.

    a 6-year old girl,
    whose hair fell,
    in a huge amount that day,
    i gave her a hope of daises,
    on her head.

    that pale guy, whose athletic passion,
    never stopped him, sat on a chair,
    with anxiety on his face,
    wearing a question, will I die today?
    i gave a pill of my smile,
    which he consumed with no questions again.

    the next bed laid an old lady,
    with oxygen mask on,
    her eyes glittering with hope,
    which I could have never allowed to lose;
    between her crooked teeth',
    a smile of thousand stars,
    it sits in my heart, forever and always.

    a family they had been throughout,
    were in the worst,
    my hands trembled even to touch them;
    a fear of calling death in my blood,
    will I lose them today?
    the girl on her leg struggling to stand,
    the guy on wheelchair still with depression on his face,
    old lady, whom I once called as my grandma was on stretcher, who was rushed into the ICU department.

    a last message they left for me,
    "we'll meet you again, maybe in a very good state, not as a patient but as a daughter, brother or mother"
    get me water, my throat feels like a drought land,
    i lost my family with coat and gloves in my hand.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 21w

    Old one.

    (the title was a prompt.)

    #childhood maybe not.
    #tempo ��

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    6:49 in my childhood bedroom

    6:49am in my childhood bedroom
    were,
    the echoes from the woods,
    who used to wake me,
    the deep camphor used to crease me,
    every nightmare used to lift me,
    the swift wind used to ease me;

    when I today woke up in
    the chaos of souvenir's,
    during the dark hours,
    the mystical dew-drops
    plop on ground,
    shrill noise of anxiety
    comes from the backyard,
    everything seems shattered,
    the silence of 6:49am in my childhood bedroom faded away,
    with the last autumn leaf.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 21w

    hands
    plastic
    wood
    she is beaten up
    later maybe iron,
    bearing the pain,
    quiet with sheer silence,
    still bearing,
    swollen dreams eyes filled with,
    tears flowing down her throat,
    lips stitched with fear,
    hammer smashing her head,
    you might have anxiety, rage inside you,
    but what was my mistake,
    i couldn't make you happy,
    you once held her with tenderness,
    and now scowled at her with anger,
    a stain to your clear white sheets,
    Isn't that she?
    the blemish on your face,
    isn't she?
    tear lines stuck all over her face,
    she can't see her face,
    a face who was blemish to your kind soul,
    stickiness washed away in water,
    with pain,
    swallowing her headache and pain, with saliva,
    she can't breath, you didn't did anything, it was her,
    curtains swaying, letting enter the beam of hope with sunlight,
    she can't consume it,
    her limbs hurt,
    kill her, but accept the silence,
    she's dying,
    dying,
    buried into coffin of silence.
    ©aditii_

  • aditii_ 22w

    Five-questions, verses knocking

    Dim winter sun drowning
    in a warm coffee cup evening,
    painting the sky into golden days,
    leaving the scars of autumm nights,
    snow pearls showering from the sky,
    forming the glaciers of coldness in my heart membrane,
    fog smoke rings spreading throughout the garden, wilting marigold blooms,
    constellations of thoughts, forming in my brain,
    will the old love plant a sapling in that deserted backyard?

    The deserted backyard submerged in old maple leaves,
    memories still existing with the summer dreams,
    a room collapsing due to chilled winter caps,
    tick-tocks from the clock thundering dark secrets,
    the silence in the room shifted into attic,
    icy pupils full of melancholic skies questioning, will this too churn your happiness?

    A happiness which existed in morning cuddles,
    now flush in the closing blinds,
    notes of springs biting chapped lips, wondering if smiling plum cheeks still sleep with happiness,
    Or the calendar sways with the end of haunting nights?

    haunting nights still embracing me,
    reminding me of my each and every nightmare I saw,
    sweating neck and empty stomach scratching me,
    why does the night is taking so long, is that because it's afraid to allow me absorb the warm sun tickles?

    Warm sun tickles,
    raising the waves of hope,
    settling the sand of pain,
    a blank sheet of answers scattered throughout the room,
    a question yet waiting at the door,
    Should I open it or not?
    ©aditii_