Miraquill
A bit of Water
A bit of water goes a long way
When sunsets resemble funeral pyres
And lakes
Unheard pleas
©aghoraa
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-
aghoraa
31w
-
aghoraa
33w
Too Good
I was
Too good
At love
And apparently
Not good enough
Otherwise;
For I saw her eyes
One morning
Blood red
And her smile
Spoke enough
Just enough
Otherwise.
©aghoraa -
aghoraa
50w
The Seeing Blind
She pulls my eyes open
And pretends
That I am alive
I close hers
And pretend
That blindness is a blessing
©aghoraa -
aghoraa
50w
Untitled
We were meant to be Gods
But when the stone ran out
They put in hearts
And called us Men
Instead
©aghoraa -
aghoraa
75w
No beauty in emptiness
For greed
The wheels turn
Every morning
And for greed
Hunger
Roars
Loud and true
Every night:
Shoulders
Can dampen
And shoes
Can be stitched,
But emptiness
Right before you sleep
Can’t be emptied
Any further.
©aghoraa -
aghoraa
83w
Molten Hot
We don't bend our knee
To dictators
Unless they prove beneficial:
Then
We bend one, sure
But the other, we keep ready
And our swords hot, molten hot
The moment
The dictator gets old
We smother him in his sleep
And his children
We make slaves.
We don't bend our knee, no
We just rest
The ground
We step on.
©aghoraa -
aghoraa
84w
Shot in the Back
The gunman
Pushes him
Forward
Towards his destination.
He smiles
And asks
For the washroom.
The gunman
Thinks
For a second
And agrees
With a nod.
He smiles, broader
And moves the other way.
A shot claps the air
And a thud fills the silence, after.
He dies
With full bowels
And an empty jaw.
©aghoraa -
aghoraa
109w
A Flying Dupatta in another Language
I hear
Spanish sirens
Glazing over
A Punjabi Moon:
What do you hope to achieve
With a tongue cut out
But the fangs intact?
Countless maidens
Fly, overhead
While I wait
For the Final Boss:
My Mother Tongue
Asking me
What I do for a living.
I hide my wallet
And show her my Poems:
She thinks me a Poet
And I smile
For a Punjabi Moon.
©aghoraa -
aghoraa
115w
Switch
I switch boats
You switch oceans:
Who is to say
Our horizons won't collide?
I'll leave my sails
Open
And you can forget
All about the shore
©aghoraa -
aghoraa
115w
Radio stations
There is a certain comfort
In radio stations.
Every five minutes
Some face
Pushes a button
Greets you
In a familiar voice
And puts on a tolerable song
And soon
The road evaporates
Just the steering wheel remains
And a wait
For the songs
To keep bumping into one another
Till they become
A shapeless mass
Of radio frequencies.
©aghoraa
-
A LUXURY.
Tell me if my mind just fails me
or is it for real, that I witness
you being so obsessed with choking my neck,
lest it remains to be any colour other than yours.
I want to read you wisdom that lingers
in pages holding verses from men who've
fathomed enough to preach that no man
ever belonged to another.
You convince me that my existence
will always be despised, unless I allow
myself to be tamed so I belong to your breed,
what you don't realise is that I'm no breed.
I smell of arrogance, you say.
But it was never for you to notice the beast
that's taken birth in my lung, ever since you've been
slaughtering what my lung shields.
What a pity that you will never know
why I smell of arrogance and taste like bloodshed.
You make breathing seem a luxury
which if not for you, I'd never be able to afford.
©miranah -
nightwriter_i
182w
Read Morewe all are black dogs surrounded by a black fence and tied up with a thin black leash. You know why the leash is thin? Its because when you get freedom, you will atleast look back and appreciate everything you are leaving behind.
Note.
The cigarette on the floor is like a memory, you crush each and everyday to feel good.
You flick it once, swing your feet twice upon it and look down at the fate. Its so easy to defeat memories. A false instinct and everything fades.
Let us not wear bags under the eyes and feel bad about smoking.
Smoking helps.
Pick up the worn out bud and smile because it grabbed you out of something you didn't sign up for.
©nightwriter_i -
There were needles
Big and tiny
Strewn across the floor
Between you and me
I was afraid to tread
And come to you
Knowing I'd be pricked
And you would too.
We'd share stories and ideas
Movies and songs
How alike were our minds
We felt no wrong.
Slowly we shared
The fables of our hearts
The agony and the pain
Its dispersed shards
Unaware, I had stepped ahead
Amidst the whirlpool of emotion
I did not feel the needles prick
Nor any caution.
Perhaps, the needles heard us
And all the words unsaid
Perhaps they marched up our bodies, one by one
And gawked at the beating red
They didn't pierce them
And leave them to bleed
Instead, they carried the two to each other
And stitched till they could, as one, breathe.
Now, they both beat
In one melody
In one motion
In one body
For, I am you
And you are me
Maybe, that's how it's meant to be.
~BanaNat -
anguisette
188w
Read MoreOf course I'm not saying that I like you but I'm just trying to figure this out okay. Why a guy would think my car is the reincarnation of his dead grandmother, oh sure it's in the wheel, she rolled like that. And no, I've never tasted carrot ice-cream, or walked in socks filled with oregano. That could be a potentially weird foot fetish.
You tied your harmonica to a helium balloon, you cried when the balloon flew your harmonica away, then bought another harmonica and tied that to another helium balloon. Wait what? Sure, you had an ex girlfriend called Monica though I'm pretty sure it was a cat. And now you hate all cats, the big cats, the small cats. God, you even think monkeys are cats.
For our weekend trip you took three water bottles but forgot the water. Now I have a cactus inside a bottle. For Christmas, you bought a screwdriver and invisible paint and painted the screwdriver with the invisible paint. It didn't turn invisible.
Then on New Year's Eve, you died; for 20 seconds, and I poured a bucket of dish water on your face, you bought me an extra apple as a thank you. I hate apples, so you ate both of them. You don't understand snow, or Pokémon, or Snow Pokémon but you could probably play the piano with your tongue, one might be tempted to say, you make a piano wet. 'Free Coffee' would be your presidential slogan if you ever ran, you hate paying for coffee.
There's a shoelace under your pillow, you like to think you can tie your dreams. You like going to the therapist because you like the sound of the squeaky toy attached to the armrest and the therapist says you're never going be normal. I'm still not saying that I like you but I find normal people boring as fuck.// this poem is probably not about bananas //
// Oh P.S - this isn't a poem //
©anguisette -
hayat_
184w
Read MoreThe morning comes alive with me.
Wait. Sounds too dramatic?
Well, it ain't ethical to lie in the first line itself too,
or is it?
But mind you, the truth ain't so pleasant either.
It comes, rather with a shrill sound
exactly from the other side of the division;
louder than my teensy alarm, Mr Snoozy,
whose voice on loop is sweet enough,
to make my mom turn bananas
and every other supposed fruit in the Musaceae family.
Anyways,
the weather would be fine, as long as Ms Sun is happy,
her mellowed kids beaming.
I've been suspecting her of treachery though lately,
with her plans to distribute UV Rays as Christmas gifts.
Yes, shamelessly.
Oh you might have heard of zephyrs too?
Early morning beauties, so they are.
But let's just call them winds O fella,
life ain't all about fancy names afterall.
I greet them a hello; a sly smile, the all I have.
In return, as expected; a cool gust of their existence crowds in,
from places unknown.
I wasn't that naïve to play detective in my middle school years, you see.
The recently trimmed layers of my hair, claim my attention,
swaying alongwith their thresholds, back and not forth,
finally finding a gravity for their own kind.
Did I tell you I'm cruel?
I sentence them a bun, the first thing in the morning.
Aish. Feel free to curse me Human,
but I know a thing more cruel-er.
Don't say you never considered Hunger one of the nominees.
You were never so greatly mistaken if you deem it as innocent, I tell you.
Don't cater to its needs, and see for yourself.
High-time I get my weight off the bed.
A look at it, and the look it gives me back.
The creases on the sheets are barely few,
like a beautiful woman in her early 30's wrinkles.
I was born lazy to straighten them up anyway.
My mind stops and smiles, reasoning me it was a night well slept.
It's a crazy mass of blood vessels and nerves, I know,
I still haven't figured out the connection how,
it associates the creases and my deep sleep inversely proportional.
Motion sure has made our life difficult, it seems.
You can never bid a bye to the room
without witnessing a birdy quarrel from the half-cut tree, still managing to breathe outside.
An old man without limbs and memory malfunction.
When did you think only humans had homes?
A crow and a cuckoo,
not all who lay their children in others' nest
are to be blamed,
and not all who are left with them, leave them parent-less.
The world is still a beautiful place.
Yet, of all the things that tempt me
to look, to witness, to ponder,
to tread a step more,
to breathe a scent galore, explore;
all the greens, and the sweet callings of the nature;
I never understood why, I've always liked my curtains closed.
©hayat
Let's keep it raw..
-
divyagautam
184w
Read More100th post. Unedited, unfortunately. I like to be authentic, I guess.
@writersnetwork #writersnetworkSolar Eclipse
Funny how the bobby pins
Tangle like the electricity wires
On the road ahead of me
Sometimes I don't understand if
Life happens to me
Or if I'm behind the wheel
There are threadbare bedspreads
In my room that I sleep with
Materialistic attachments kill you, they say
Thank God I haven't been in love
Or how else would I justify this death?
Seven saturdays ago, I was more myself
Than I've been in a while, maybe
It was because I cut my hair again
This body will claw at you, inside out
And you will run faster than ever before
Hilltops will seem conquerable at night
And mornings will make even sidewalks seem unattainable
I know about the delay
Your thoughts can't live without
Even silence is addictive, sometimes
When the trees sway in rhythm to your breath
A twisted mangle of silent sighs
Is all that echoes in my mind
Don't ever become too friendly with yourself
Or forgiveness will become a foreign concept
And gravity wont be enough to hug you to the Earth.
Inhale. Exhale. Repeat, is all I do, breaths wasted, blood pumped for nobody's sake,
Fly me away, to the other side of this umbra,
Where I know not myself, and you know not truth,
So that for once, I may know the taste of existence.
©divyagautam -
Clockwork Child
I live all bunched up between floor tiles
That zigzag their way into a tesselation
Of right and wrong
Here and there, I wander
Some nights, I am far away in my mind
Willing upon a future to take me into it
While leaning against doubt
Like a lame man, with joints unhinged.
Her shadow is imperceptible but still there
It pulls backs each thought
Till they are too tired to materialize
Make magic happen, I beg the heavens.
Each night, she comes and screams
And her shadow becomes darker,
Perceptible now more than even my spirit.
I feel the cold wooden desk with my palms,
The only object old enough to understand this reality.
I will leave soon, I say every day,
Sometimes we affirm lies like we dodge truth,
In small increments, I start to distrust in me
I start to know myself as another,
Me, myself and I are now like the three hands of a clock,
Out of sync, most of the time.
Gears shift, and I move with habit,
Ticking away into a tomorrow I will never own.
©divyagautam -
Far away from men who masturbate to girls that walk past their cars, there is a coffee shop that I like.
It's just around that street where poor little children sell balloons and the light in their eyes to sad children inside their cars. Nevermind that, they do it only to sleep, atleast for this night, where there is a roof above their heads and not where Labradors shit.
No no, don't go over that main road where bicycle riders go the opposite way and look at you as if you've killed someone.
Listen, just wait by that place at the end of the road where woman go in on Wednesdays to lose their virginity again and again, only after giving and getting alcohol-ridden consent, of course.
Yes, that's the place. It's worth it, believe me. We can search up some really good books or twilight would do too. You can drink and I can drive. We can take pictures because human memory isn't that reliable.
And then, when we leave remind me to write that waiter a note - "Drink coffee. Because over-expensive shots will not save your uncle's drowning business. And for God's sake, get out of my personal space, you remind me of Wednesdays."
©nyx___malfoy
