Miraquill
An Imprecise Metaphor
My mere words might not do you enough justice,
my words might not, but the rhapsody I stole from
the glances of subtlety might.
Is it a rhapsody if it's not proper?
Is it?! I don't know! I don't know!!!
I don't..I do not seem to know of anything lately,
I do not seem to be aware of anybody around me,
I i ai.ai..I do not seem to belong to any bevy.
Hush! Hush! Hush!
Someone shouted.
"Who was that?",
I asked but no one answered..
Pulling on my hair; breaking the tip of my pen in process, I asked and was greeted with silence again.
"Look around and see for yourself; listen carefully.
You might feel so insignificant, so small
in this world of sterile thoughts but, look again and this time with your eyes closed.
Look at her, so majestic, so powerful.
Indeed, the grime has made its home there but
you can still feel the comfort and familiarity amidst."
Again, my ears perked up to the voice but it felt soothing then. So, I let it, whoever the voice belonged to, do the magic and calm myself down.
I opened my eyes and looked around the pristine yet ferocious range of mountains brimmed with sweet and forbidden temptation of flight.
I could feel the oxymorons flowing through the valleys and metaphors blooming in vicinity. The irony seems to stand still like the rock on which idioms and phrases reside alike moss.
In the moment of pure consciousness; comfortable numbness, I dared myself to find a desire.
A desire, unbeknownst to everyone, to myself.
The excitement bursting inside my body started diffusing rapidly to align with the beginning of maybe a new era.
There might not be enough reason to desire the desire but enough to settle down meekly in a corner with a shelf full of stories of the valleys.
Is it possible? Is it within the rule book of the ton to let me be, to not bound me with their norms and just letting me be me and desire my own penned desire?
I could hear the laughter of fools, who think serendipity is conquerable and colours are miserable, echoing around on that question.
Counting down the seconds from desperate arrival to patient departure of anxiety, I peeped my eye open to see the beauty around me in smokes of sexism.
My panic might have subsided when I felt the push from behind and when I turned around to hold the one by collar, I met a persistent shadow lingering behind like an obsession and so, I let myself be embraced into the arms of nothingness, for a moment.
Shaking it off, I walked near the edge with twisted feet, an embodied vitality and no reinforcements to question if there is going to be a judgement call made against my nature of rebelliousness.
Screaming silence and bursting temper of smoke announced the impending arrival of the jury, the Universe, who has summoned the presence of the guilty but am I guilty? Yes, I have burnt the roots of the ton, killed the breeders of evil and much more but that was my one desire and I was granted one.
Am I guilty to indulge in my desire or what people think as my weakness, a fight for myself?
Am I?
©embracewabisabi
embracewabisabi
Eternity is encapsulated in this very moment. ❤️
-
embracewabisabi
59w
Read MorePS : Tried to write down my insincere and inconsistent thoughts.
@mirakee @writersnetwork
@allbymyself -
dotting the i's and crossing the t's
It's been a long time since I have made any efforts to write a letter to myself or a poem about my beloved or a free verse for the season's arrival.
When my alliance with words broke apart, I stayed put in my position while dotting the i's and crossing the t's to return to the cavern of literature. Clinging to a speck of hope that I'll write this; whatever it is, to you, or whomsoever sees this first, in just a few words and here it goes.
I'll pick up a pen and a paper and then, I'll write down your name on it in beautiful cursive handwriting. Then, I'll take you through the wisdom of words, explaining how difficult it is to find the brevity in the soul of wit.
Meanwhile, in my reveries, I have made acquaintances with the season's arrival. Winter arrived mild and decent that year. Still, it seeped into my bones as deep as the warmth of a forever hope of spring.
When a bird pecked on my window; it pulled me out of my reverie of seasonal intimacies and that is when I saw the chaos running past me but only after giving me the glimpse of that cynical smile.
An endless political stagnation, growing perennial distrust for media, an ephemeral toxic closure of the gone, conscious blindness towards black and white, feeling proud for being pitiful than being pragmatic, believing in committing a gruesome crime to lessen the gravity of the other crime that had been committed, an ongoing horde of artificial charm, an introduction of a course in schools for mass manufacturing of professional prevaricators, plantation of weeds on the boundaries rather than seeds, a persistent irrelevant irreverence towards someone whom you think is not of your level...
Umm, apologies..the tip of my pen just had a mental breakdown and I have to scrape myself off the old habit of writing long vented paragraphs.
So, when I said I'll take you to the lane of wisdom, I forgot to introduce you to the ladies in charge there, Ms Patience and Mrs Acceptance. They both are loyal to their jobs and acknowledge the journeys of the people who come to embark upon the wisdom street. They have also signed an NDA to gain the trust of the astrays stumbling on their contained block and guide them throughout. I don't have the pass to go inside because I had my rows with it already in the past, so, you have to go on your own on this venture. I guess that's all about it. Remember, not to hover over grey always, sometimes colours are distracting, they have the tendency to colour you in their shade and you can't let that happen because it will make you desperate for more and more, and that's not the antidote you desire. Nonetheless, it's your journey...
Anyways, my intention to write this letter was to inform you that the sky has now taken the shade of orange and it's burning due to the almost non-existence of souls all around. The breeze of redemption has passed and the howling gales are coming along with battering rams to destroy what's remaining.
I heard the news that commotion has now reached its peak and is getting ready for a full-blown dive to the very depth with the intention of drowning and splashing everyone around with guilt.
Covering my face makes me feel claustrophobic but still, I have it covered while writing this letter because I feel maybe you'll feel safe that I tried. I hope you are doing okay and try not to focus on the chaos. Wait for the winters, maybe they'll come this time again all mild and decent, and like a considerate lover. -
embracewabisabi
107w
Read More
I made my rules
Love is just for fools
I don't do love anymore...
~I don't do love anymore
(Song by Medha Sahi and Mikey McCleary)
@mirakee @writersnetworkA shade darker
When my hands slipped beneath the fabric of your work-ridden wrinkled shirt the other night, it felt like I had unlocked a secret from that royal box of hidden exploits and escapades; I had pushed deep inside my closet. So, when my fingers traced your back and reached to the crooked skin meeting the dimples on your shoulder blades, I knew you'd become my plague, a gruesome gruelling sensitive exploit in that royal box.
Knowing I'd be treading water, I took the ropes in my hand and plunged in, and locked my mouth with yours. The feelings inside of me, this twisted agony of desire and emotions, only you could tame it. So, when my subconscious leafed through another secret in that box; it discovered the old you, new him, and them.
Them had disowned me when they discovered my randomness is nothing but the rare moment they never wished for. Then came Him, no-no, not the new him; just him.
His hands used to explore my body like my pen used to sink around metaphors and oxymorons, and alliteration and similies. His eyes beckoned me not to go anywhere else, to only see through him, and I did. I did and I fell into the pits of all his pain leaving him and myself vulnerable to the insurance of breaks in the wall. My heart weighed too heavy because with his every single thrust into my body, it reminded me too much of you. It reminded me of old you. I hadn't any compunction to my desire but the thumping heart had other plans, like always.
Old you, who used to be my favourite escapade, yet ended up on my list of exploits. Why? Why did every inch of you and I had shattered us apart? Sometimes, I had a laugh at this tragedy of us and sometimes, I had ended up emptying the bottles of alcohol in a bar. I reeked of those shushed words, unanswered questions, fractured faith and your scarring touch.
Do you remember, old you, how we met? I guess not... as much as I hated being born in this digital age, I loved how it had connected your pixels to mine. Sometimes, I wonder if this wouldn't have been the case, would you and I have met in any other coordinates? Nonetheless, the connection from screens went to hands in a few months, and from hands to my lips and my body in no time. It became the kind of pleasure that had me standing on my tiptoes, arching my spine and wrapping my arms around yours but, that pleasure, that young love got too old too soon.
I had a starred message on my phone that said, "I'll only stop loving if I ever fall out of it". But I never did, my love, and yet here I am; alone with the new him; new him that I made him to be after he got the burns from the old you.
The new him was not so different from him or from the old you, he became just a little more hostile or should I say, the new him had learned how to get away from a committed unloving affair.
New him had stayed with me, had comforted me but he had never said I love you like you used to and neither did I.
©embracewabisabi -
Unstitch the Psyche
My father used to
start his day with a tea in bed and
eat misogyny for his breakfast
and my mother,
she used to feed us the norms of patriarchy.
Me? I was the hesitant confession
of their lost little moments
that had been harshened by
the shadows of a dying grace.
I was sold to the vows around
the sacred fire that had lost their worth
when you said,
"your you's and my you's don't match".
When this sweet
love turned into a poisonous fire,
I got under its sharp sparks and got burnt from
the branding of your dominance.
Not that I didn't fight back, I did, but,
you were stronger. You became stronger.
What was it? Who conspired against me?
Was it the tea leaves in your morning tea
poured by me or your bag that marched
unabashedly through the front door?
Was it the colourful tiles on the
page of instagram or my deviation from
the pursuit of your happiness?
I never got to know. I had lost the count
of number of times I had tried to
match your you's and my I's.
For you, I was the sin that even
the filthiest of sinners couldn't surpass.
I was a trophy to your wad of cash and the pretentiousness of your perfect tie.
I was the lost case of selfhood and I was
the abandoned rhythm and rhyme of your
daily life outside our door.
My anxiousness and my thirst
of depression warned me to not paddle
on the scale of 10 but I did,
and with that; I lost the bet to objectification.
It was me who was blamed when you
murdered the intimacy of red and
gave birth to the hostile blues and blacks.
When my tempted illusions
couldn't satisfy your vigorous desires,
you switched the blame to my crooked fears.
Still, that tailored suit of yours
stayed wrinkle-free and the warmth
of my layers was taken away
and put on fire.
With scars on my body;
when I crossed our doorstep and
knocked on the precious siesta of my father
with the cramped up debts in one hand and
a bag full of baggage on the other shoulder,
he spared me no cents and threw me out.
My mother bound by the norms of patriarchy
looked me in the eye and said,
"Maybe these scars will tell you
to never abandon the fate of your being,
of your identity as a woman in this world".
Hearing those words
coming out of a woman, my mother at that,
all hell broke loose and,
I promised myself that I'll play with the fire
and would save few too many cents
to put on the smile of overcoming fears
and dedicated self-esteem.
I promised myself that I will show my scars with pride; as my battle scars.
I promised to rent an apartment
in my beautiful soul with or
without the awkward silences.
I promised myself that I'll leave
the tormented psyche to be and
will grow the seeds of my candid existence
in the art of broken but beautiful life.
I'll fight for and against the better,
for the number of strikes is not fussy
when it comes to selfhood.
It is and will always be about
taking steps forward, away from
the materialistic world and into the
captivating world of salvation of ownself.
©embracewabisabi -
embracewabisabi
121w
Read More
These stories don't stay buried anymore.
I threw it away over a dozen times.
But it always found its way back to the foot of my bed, a little bit riper each time.
-Maggie/The Morning Show
@writersnetwork @mirakeeRoutine Pattern!
Subtly and slyly;
you slipped into the bed.
The half-broken promise in your breathing
had made its appearance in the pursuit
of my desperate cries.
There was no air left in the room,
just our muffled gasps; escaping nowhere,
infused with the mellow song, our song,
playing on the infinite loop.
When your hand grazed mine,
it ignited a wave of goosebumps
that rippled across my skin,
spreading throughout every extremity.
I tossed and turned,
and found you lying wide awake
looking at the ceiling and crying.
Thinking the same as me:
As to when did we stop belonging
to you and me;
when did the "us" become
"you's" and "I's";
when did we start forgetting
pieces of one another, and
When... when did you and I
fall apart?
Google had told me ways to
make amends, my best friends had
spooned me and tried to make me
realize your worth, my mother asked
me to never call quits because
society would eat me alive, my neighbours
called me a witch, the roads started filling
with dirty rumours and our walls were
screaming silence all the way through.
But, when had love ever heeded
to anything. The on and off switch
of my body had been working on
cheap sustainable tactics;
showing me my self-worth
Yesterday, the pale yellow came knocking
on my door. Although,
she wasn't somebody
I wanted to meet then still,
I made acquaintances; nicely.
She seemed oddly curious
about the stillness in my grey eyes.
Her wisdom was crystal clear, to dig deep into
this vehement gaping stillness of mine.
Bullets filled with quintessential
incompleteness whizzed through
my heart in a call far too close for my comfort.
They had charmed the aorta with their
bewitching dotted lines and blank spaces
choking me to the reality of the situation.
Terrified, with hands holding on to my neck,
I woke up and saw you lying aside me.
In lieu of your indistinct shadow; was now you,
sleeping peacefully like nothing ever happened,
like you and I never happened.
©embracewabisabi -
Crossroads
I'm at the crossroads
where everyone once has been
or will be.
Saying goodbye to the people
who you love is not the hardest thing,
I realised. Not seeing them
every other day would be
the hardest of all.
Not hearing
their annoying voices
from morning to night.
Not knocking at their doors
at 3 in the morning to just have
their company to eat or
not waking them up for classes and then
sleeping in their bed and be lazy together.
Not staying up all night, struggling between
studying for exams and gossiping.
Not having random pampering days
and senseless fights.
Not being stubborn to one another
or just mocking one another.
Not fighting to others because they bitched
about your friends or just
not being there in their ups and downs. I
All of this isn't coming back. How crazy is it,
for four years I kept cursing this place for its
mundane yellows and blues but,
never thanked it for the eternal shades
it has given me to colour my life
with the bests of best.
I'm jealous of the people already
who are going to be in their lives,
who will share with them their
monotonous routines, who will
hold them in their worst.
I've shared my pizzas with them,
my choices, my beliefs and I've
shared a part of me. Shared?
I've given it up for them and will do it
again, as many times as it takes to
have them by my side.
It's only 24 hours before
I'm writing this. I can't imagine
my life after these 24 hours, after
I leave this place for good or for better.
I'm at the crossroads
where everyone once has been
or will be, just to say the same -
I will miss you and
I will always love you.
(A student of B.Tech, Batch 2015-19) -
embracewabisabi
158w
Read More
On an impromptu expedition
in my pursuit of tranquillity,
whilst holding on to nothing
I met you.
The memories of that day
are still engraved in my mind and
making peace with my smile
just like you did with my heart.
Music was the next thing
you bewitched me with,
after I saw your joy
lurking in the curves of my lips.
On the night of the music concert,
I told you a part of me and so did you.
We talked about us, and only us
under the dim city lights.
The next flavour of our meeting
were alcohol and cigarettes in a pub.
I got inebriated to mend my broken heart
but, I already found it in the gaps of your hands.
After that day I desired your sight
so, I put off my spectacles of the past
and looked for my present
in you, with you.
When another bolt of lightning hit my roof
I reached out for your palms
solely to be embraced by you, in your arms
and that is when I let a part of myself set free.
In the midnight, when the city was glistening with moonlight,
we turned the terrace of my home into a dance floor.
and drunk danced to the rhythm of “Time in a Bottle”
till we got intoxicated in each other’s senses.
Days passed in a blur
and we bumped onto the path
of faulty and flawless
longings and love.
It was time to rekindle;
Rekindle the intimacy that went for a long walk
but had come back
to ignite the fire of love inside us.
©embracewabisabi
#EWSFAVRekindled Souls
-
728 days of captivity
I always forget to write about
you. I don't know.
It's just a defence mechanism
to escape through the pain that comes
from seeing you walking away.
I wonder if I'll ever stop
loving you, your beautiful soul.
If I'll ever love the concept of
falling in love, again.
Serenity too has run away.
I know you've outgrown
the mundane share of our lives
and believe in the adventuresome part
of it more than the sweet monotony
of our 728 days of captivity.
Can I have you for
one last time, in my arms?
I'll hold on to you, and
never let you go, maybe or
maybe I'll let you go.
The loving outreach of mine
to you is so tempting. It
makes me believe in myself,
in my power of love. But, is it
enough for you to stay?
I know you've seen the worst and
you've seen it in me. I am your
worst nightmare and your
beautiful dream, one
you can't escape from.
I always forget to write about
you. I don't know.
It's just a defence mechanism
to escape through the pain that comes
from seeing you not in love with me.
©embracewabisabi -
Just Like That
Dear Solace,
I have seen you lingering around
alone and happy. You seem
so content within yourself, always.
How do you do it? You see,
I envy you. I envy that
I go through all of it and
you come and steal my thunder.
You become the priority and
I become a speckle of dust.
Why is it? I've tried
to give them all; all the tastes
of our existence. I've made them know
love. I've given them their bests.
But, the moment I leave them to
satisfy others desires, they ask for you
and blame me for the lack of air.
They want to trap me in a cage and
not let go. Trap me like, I'm some
danger to their being or as if I'm some slave.
Can't you see, how much I've worked
to bring them here? How much
I've sacrificed to be by there side, always,
and still, I'm the one who left them
in pain. See, the word has gotten around
that I'm the bad cop here and you,
a good cop. But,
they don't see for who you are.
A thief. They don't look you in the eyes
and see what I see.
A selfish immortal vital force;
looking for something to reside in,
to soothe away its loneliness and not
the aloneness, we so easily presume.
I'm writing this 59th letter in good faith that
you'll read me some day and realise that
I hope for you to find your hiraeth soon
and have it to yourself to nurture and rule.
Just bless me with your home, so,
I can have a share of you when needed.
Just like that.
Yours lovingly,
Joy
(aka happiness)
©embracewabisabi -
embracewabisabi
159w
Read More
My bill of faith
is in its later stage,
stuck in the machine
of time and betrayal.
They go hand in hand,
don't they?
Time and betrayal?
You count on time
to do the healing and
time, well, it makes
a move against
your desired timeline
and give betrayal a chance
to climb up and creeps up on you.
The pain it leaves
stumble upon the path of life
every now and then
to make its presence noted.
My ragged clothes have tried
to cover the scars
inflicted on this journey.
I've been high on oblivion
since the two messed up one another.
My obsession with love and my
addiction to love has bailed up on me.
The intricate difference taught me
the meaning of intense suffering.
Duly noted pain never
leaves my vicinity. It
messes with my shy friend,
happiness, and troubles the season
of cataclysms, and provoke them
to retaliate against its unwanted presence.
The war to take the pain away from my happiness
won by none. The pain suffered the loss of
loneliness, anger and pessimism, and
happiness suffered the loss of
aloneness, serenity, and optimism.
The fear of losing more to this war
made them re-think their
ideologies of existence.
In the moment of pondering,
the sound of a machine and
the smell of a fresh ink filled the room.
The bill of faith has charged
pain and happiness with
an equal amount of time and betrayal.
No one won the war,
because both are strong-headed
to not be together but, both are weak
to live without one another.
©embracewabisabi
@mirakee @writersnetwork
#EWSFAVBill of Faith
-
Hands
I am tired of my hands
Constantly pulling at my hair
I'm tired of my hands
Scratching at the scabs
Making them bleed
I'm tired of my hands
Moving, moving and moving
And I'm tired and tired and tired
Of feeling like my hands are the only thing
Keeping me sane
They drive me insane
My eccentricity takes root in them,
My hands move and scratch and pull
And they get tired too
I'm tired of my hands
Reaching for my cellphone
Every other second
I am tired
That I can't seem to focus
On the little things
On the big ones
That seem to constitute life
I'm tired of my hands
Measuring how much of my waist
Fits in my palms
The loathing that comes after it
Is not worth my tears at all
And I'm tired of my hands
Writing and un-writing
Poetry
That I'll never share
With people who see
My hands moving and moving and moving
I'm tired
I'm so tired
But it's so scary to be this tired
Of my hands
They are only hands
But - , I'm so scared
Of my hands stopping
Of not moving, not moving, not moving at all
Of clenching my fists and trying to breath
And trying to be better, better and better
And still failing
For my hands seem like the only thing
Still holding on to this fluttering, fragile thing
Called life
I could kill it, for all I know
Let it go like it doesn't mean a thing to me
But my hands still hold on
For that is the only thing they have learnt
To keep moving and moving and moving
Until I'm about to fall
And my hands
They are the only thing
That hold on and on and on
©wasted_sparks -
it's easier to look
at the infinities
of promises, with
endless regrets
& brokeness
of 99 pasts.
drowned in the
yesterday's red
champagne.
slipping from the
blue bar shelves.
seeking love.
seeking affection
from some people
outside of my
little home.
i listen to my maa
and she says
of the collapsing
feelings she has had
when adding to
her new life
with papa.
of mistakes
he made and
sorrys she left
unheard.
of fights
they did never
resolve.
they meet
once in a week
to check on me.
not on my
broken heart.
a torn letter.
i read.
lying in yellows
and pinks
at the corner
of two walls.
rolled up
into mess
of joined
3 pieces.
it smelled
of tears and
heavy eyes.
sounded a cry
for the long
missing
friend and
a wish to
reunite.
in among
all the people
who wait
for love. and
others who
just let it
go. some who
cover their
face because
they couldn't
hold on.
i'm a
part of
them all.
i'm a
part of
them all.
of people i've
and people
i've lost.
love i don't get
and love i
give off.
smiles i held
on the cheeks
& cries i let
flow.
i'm okay i say.
i'm okay
sometimes
for me.
alone.
©laconicutterance | sia -
kairos_
107w
Read MoreValidation innate
by birth,
trophies and praises
that outgrow their shelves
kept on show
for past smiles
with an ever losing shine.
Acquired it
young,
a field of mango trees
adored for their
sweet worded fruits
a neem tree ignored
for its honesty, instead
declared bitter and envious.
Given and taken
when old,
a part of the crowd
that believed to
stand not on their feet but
walking on toes to stand out
to catch hold of even an
appreciative smile,
tending to always
smile first.
Validation died
when contentment knocked,
knocking on fragile doors
built with ego
meant only to fall.
- T.S.Appraisal.
"Scared,
asking for words,
only good ones
to calm nerves,
otherwise it burns."
©kairos_ -
pingu_pennameofmine
125w
Read MoreMondays were no more painted in monochrome
As well as Fridays were not as vibrant as approaching holidays;
But there is this,
A constant ticking flips of anxiety
Like the acidic sharpness of coffee
splashing inside an empty stomach chamber,
Hitting sanity with insanity,
Daunting dizziness of nausea,
Paralysing limbs,
Overwhelmed senses,
Gripping the spirits of my authenticity
Sweating palms, shaking legs
And screaming heart;
Stop,
I screamed
With no voices;
No, it said, a bit louder everytime I
close my eyes to bring my foggy
consciousness to sobriety
But every endeavours of mine were
mocked and scorned
A little bit louder everytime I held
my breath a little bit harder,
So i decided to let it go..
©pingu_pennameofmine
This is how anxiety feels like...
@writersnetwork @mirakee @readwriteunite #pod #writersnetwork #mirakee #anxiety.
-
maybeyoushouldreadapoem
60w
Read MoreD'ya have a headache?
Maybe you should pop a paracetamol.
Have you been feeling hungry?
Maybe you should try something delicious.
Have you been feeling dejected lately?
Maybe you should get some needed help.
Have you been sick of the world, altogether?
Maybe you should sleep it all out.
And if you've been feeling all four?
Maybe you should read a poem, first!
•••
GUYS, WE'RE HERE; AND IT'S OFFICIAL!
Before we start telling you the criteria and the structure for posting and reposting content, we'd like to give a little backstory to our page name first.
We suck at naming things and we're not at all shy to admit it. After loads and loads of experimenting with Greek-Irish-Japanese Pinterest-worthy words, and failing to give 'em our kinda meaning to it; we wanted something simple and elegant. Maybe with a punch of humour. We moved on to recalling book references, our favourite songs and movies for inspiration, anything that'd give us an edge. Alas, we'd suddenly forgotten all the books and movies and songs we'd ever loved. Relatable, right?
Yep, we laughed on our helplessness too.
In just a matter of seconds, our frenzy thought process went like --
"oh oh think of a book name"
to
"idk man��"
then
"oh oh what book are you currently reading rn" to
"oh oh it's 'Maybe You Should Talk To Someone' by Lori Gottlieb"
then directly to
"is 'maybeyoushouldreadapoem' is a good enough name"
We took a second each,
and chuckled a little louder in realization.
It hit.
Humour, sass, sweetness, and most importantly, a very good piece of advice!
~
We absolutely love it. What about you guys?
•••
Coming to the what happens on the page, we'd love being transparent. Here's how each thing would go:
CRITERIA: As mentioned already in (@hayat_'s) most recent post;
Structurally, none at all! Prose, poetry, stories. However long or short. (If it's a story in parts, it can be nominated after it's been entirely completed).
Anything and everything that's creative/fresh/insightful/original/witty/has good imagery etc etc qualifies!
In no way does it have to be popular enough, or concentrated around hot-topics only. The idea is to give a platform that appreciates quality content, without any other qualifiers.
We'd love all the help we can get so we'd really appreciate if y'all will take time and tag us in pieces you think are good enough.
NOTE: The tags do not have to be only on new or most recent pieces. Go ahead and pick up your favourites, however old or new and let us know which ones they are. We'd be more than happy to read and share them.
Go easy on us though since mirakee notifications can be accommodated only upto a limit. So be selective. Tag us only on the ones you really think are good.
HOW IT'LL WORK:
Just so everything plays fair, we've divided the content we'd read in two parts--
1. The tagged content.
2. Individually explored content.
Both of us will alternate reading content between those two sections, meaning one day it's Srishti (@thegreymetaphor)'s turn to read the tagged content and Hayat (@hayat_)'s to explore individually; the next day, vice versa).
In the end one of the two pieces will be chosen to go on the Instagram page.
The other piece, you ask? 'cause it'll be no less awesome right?!
We'll repost it here from our (@maybeyoushouldreadapoem) Mirakee account so it's more accessible for everyone to read, and also post a screenshot of it on our insta story.
We'd put up both the Mirakee and Insta usernames of the Writers in our insta stories and posts, so they get their due recognition and appreciation! Please make an effort to appreciate both the pieces, won't ya?
•••
The posting and reposting time on Insta and Mirakee, respectively, would be around 4-5 PM IST.
Also, since we prioritize consent, the reads of today will be posted tomorrow, so that both of us, the readers and the writers of the pieces, have an adequate 24 hour period to ask for consent and respond. And in a case where somebody would be unwilling for whatever reasons, no questions asked; for us to read some more and look for another.
•••
Feel absolutely free to drop us any queries, suggestions, feedback, anything in the comment section. We'll make sure we answer each one of you, we promise.
Thankyou, really, for all the love and trust you selflessly bestow on us, can you see us crying through the screens? Trust me, we are. :''))
Your very own Pastel Ladies,
Srishti (@thegreymetaphor)
Hayat (@hayat_)
•••
If you can, tag your acquaintances in the comments below, we'd genuinely appreciate you spreading the word.
We hope you guys help us build the same community spirit on Instagram, too. Our Instagram handle link will always be in our bio. :).
-
hayat_
60w
Read MoreHey y'all. I need a few minutes from anybody who's reading this.
~
What do you guys think of me and Srishti (@thegreymetaphor) starting a page on Instagram?
There's already lots of pages curating content from Instagram to Instagram; as well as people finding content of well established writers and making it accessible on Instagram. But not really a platform, where they exclusively curate from Mirakee onto an Instagram feature page. (Except for the Official account of Mirakee on Insta, others we're not aware of.)
We've been seeing a lot of content that is so good here, but it seldom gets appreciated the way it should. Appreciation is never the primary reason for writing ofcourse, but we'll just like to do our part for our selfish love for poetry!
(Given, the writer has expressed their consent, ofcourse. That'd always be asked.)
We really need you guys' feedback! Would you like it? Would you be interested and willing to lend support? Please let us know in the comment section below!
This community means so much to us, and there are also a few reasons why we were considering starting this venture -
1. Our reading habits have drastically reduced on Mirakee, this might just push us to get us back on track -- be the avid readers we always wanted to be.
2. We want the time that we spend on Instagram to feel more fruitful.
3. There is no greater joy than appreciating and sharing poetry that we love just for our own sake!
4. Lastly, this is not intended to put any individual or platform down. In no way do we want to take the control in our hands. It's just for the sole purpose of appreciating the good poetry that often gets unnoticed due to various reasons.
The criteria for features:
Structurally, none at all! Prose, poetry, stories. However long or short. Anything and everything that's creative/fresh/insightful/original/witty/has good imagery etc etc qualifies!
In no way does it have to be popular enough, or concentrated around hot-topics only. The idea is to give a platform that appreciates quality content, without any other constraints.
~
We're yet to even decide anything. We haven't thought of a name, nothing about the theme, how will we work it out on Mirakee here or on Instagram, or if we'd need a separate account here too. We first wanted to know how the community here feels about it. And if you'd trust me and Srishti enough as the readers.
Feel free to ask us anything about this, if you have queries. We'd appreciate it so so so much if you let us know. Drop a �� at the very least, we'd take that as validation for our attempt!
Love and regards,
Srishti and Hayat.
•••
If you can, share this so it reaches more people, will ya? :D
•••
If you're reading this post rn, quick head over to @maybeyoushouldreadapoem! It's official, guys!Announcement?
-
THE STOLEN STAR FROM GALAXIES
*
O twinkling star
where are they hiding you ?
Beneath the veil of blue metaphors of
that hubristic poet
or under the velarium of desultory clouds
//I'll find you my sweetheart, neither the poet can steal you from my azure sky nor those menaces can embezzle you from my silken heart//
O dazzling star
the darkness of my megalopolis
is waiting for you
Whisper my name once
are those big bungalows concealing you
or those unwrinkled divans ?
//Don't worry my sweetheart, neither those divan beds nor those bungalows can stow away you from my soul until my death//
~and ah, my little star
if I won't be able to find you
then come to that pebbly lawn
with some white jasmines and
enfold my casket with your aromatic breaths
but not with full of tears but with your silvery smile~
~star and galaxies || bidya
* -
Sometimes I envy my own writings.
They belong to him more
than they could ever belong to me.
©thousand_splendid_thoughts -
mirror
86w
Read More//musalsal
(constant)
my fears are definitive
because every step i take
somehow makes me want to think
of everything tragic that there is
and my mind does not stop
creating possibilities
that leave me paralyzed
for hours
until i wait for the situation to pass
close, closer to what i thought would happen
slowly killing myself and wondering
if that was the worst
that could have happened
and that makes me
so much more susceptible
to the very chance of its reoccurrence
in ways that hold my breath and thoughts
as i push myself down the road of
fearing and over analyzing
again
and again
and again
until my thoughts show up on my skin
leaving scars on my heart
and drafts in my diary
as i stand on yet another crossroad
with the nib against my throat
wondering if i should take a turn
or keep standing
till the end of me
©mirror
@mirakee @writersnetwork
picture credits - pinterestmusalsal
©mirror
-
Attic
All the masterpieces are pushed back in a dark corner of the attic, in a box covered with dust and regrets, labeled "not good enough"
©raika
