39 posts
  • rahoof 10w

    This has been an ongoing thought.
    Why am I so afraid to meet new people?
    Asking often, and often getting confused.
    "Am I too cowardly or am I too tired to give trust?"

    Feels as if I'd known enough people in life.
    And from what I've had - I've had enough.
    Thus I lend my rooms limited,
    and my trust runs shallow.
    So when you ask,
    "Would you lend the world another chance?"
    I could only show you,
    The monumental cuts of my bare back,
    And the rusted knives I had to pull once
    from the clenched shut hands of the cruel world.

    So when you ask,
    "Would you lend the world another chance?"
    I would rather let my silence speak,
    And let your words stutter.


  • rahoof 10w

    My cravings for Chaos

    Its blank like a blatant page, not even damped
    by rain or teared by wind, just plain - blank.
    That’s what life had become,
    Like sambar without spices or veggies,
    Not even salt and kaduk.
    One could call it tap water on cooker,
    Served on rice without Uppu.
    Yet I am not craving for adversities.
    But I cant find feelings to write,
    Emotions to convey,
    Or hurt to cry about.
    In difficulty I prayed for peace.
    Now I have it.
    I remembered I was a poet fuelled by hurt.
    Pain brought me to Poetry.
    Now, I feel non poetic,
    I feel ordinary.
    Maybe my reign of poetry is over,
    Or am I secretly craving for Chaos?


  • rahoof 14w

    When you are stuck on the thin line of deep sleep and waking up, the time when everything feels odd and out of place.
    #Outofplace #poetry #poems #creative #odd #wordpictures #imagery #metaphors #wordporn #vangogh #Vincentvangogh #wordpainting #rauf #raufpoetry @writersnetwork @miraquill

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    Out of place

    Call it the time of the morning when -
    Mr.sun is delayed on his rush to get out.
    Might it be, that his 'tie' got itself stuck between doors, on his routine way out?

    Uncalled, unapproved darkness surrounds,
    Where there should be morning's daylight.
    And my eyes woke up to a window
    screening backdrops of Orion's darkness.

    Motionless against my will,
    I layed roofless on a barron landscape.
    And for this one time the moon and stars
    felt like complete and utter outcasts.


  • one_upp1 20w

    Lil Late On The Risk Takin'

    The risks I've taken I didn't grow
    The growths I made they didn't show
    Mistakes I fixed, I did it slow
    The crimes committed, I did the most
    Like the ol important saying goes...
    "You can choose the paved road
    But no flowers grow"
    But fortune favors the bold
    So take risks
    Make it rich
    Play it safe
    Live okay


  • ak_anjali_daydreamzz 36w

    #iconography #hibernation #wod #pod lengthy ಥ‿ಥ
    #mothersday #mother #VanGogh
    / Quotations /
    Rest all written rights reserved
    9 May 2021 3.39 pm

    [Dear Vincent, I apologize for every thing I spilled here, I've been sinking into your art, your life and your pain, idk why ]

    Vincent's Starry Night ~

    Vincent's life was empty for a passerby. Yet it was filled up to the brim with multitudes of visions and hues of daydreams. No mortal could trespass the brimming life within his soul. And he poured it wholeheartedly to the ever-welcoming canvases.

    Hurt overshadowed every hail. Pain veiled every pleasure and sorrow reigned over his solitude.Despite pessimistic diagnosis, he always bounced back to his art. Perhaps that was his only optimistic stroke in life's canvas.

    I wonder what caught his mind gazing at the outside world through the barred windows of his cell. He said he " had a new study of a starry sky ". And I guess only blue could do justice to his emotional turbulence. Those twirls his paint brush stroked was the entangled threads of his life. Swirls swiveling between life and death, pessimistic blues and optimistic yellows, persistent dreams and stubborn depression, those strokes were resultant force of the tango with his variant turmoil.

    The enormous star prior to the dawn-break of the countryside was a vision that anchored his hazy mind. Cobalt blue curls marrying zinc yellow pigments created the serene sky in starry night.Those funereal cypresses, olive trees and mighty mountains acted as his catalysts. The village a reminiscence of his life and the sky a depiction of the real night sky with a play of contrasting colors and the presence of the cresent moon with a heavenly halo and northern lights give an ethereal treat to artistic minds, a vision unlike no other.

    He failed to recognize the magical spell sprinkled all over the oil painted canvas, as he regarded it yet another of his failure, a moment of weakness where he allowed himself to go
    /"astray, reaching for the stars that are too big - another failure "/
    Perhaps its the world around him that veiled the true colors of his own art from his eyes.
    The illusion of death and afterlife is also entwined in his brush strokes.
    / " we take death to reach a star " /
    And maybe those yellow tinges affirm his hopes of finding an abode elsewhere or even in this very earth itself.
    / " Hope is in the stars " /

    It is that very hope he meant that I find myself holding onto in the silence of many starry nights. That hope blooms in the intervals between consciousness and unconsciousness. That hope seeks a solemn soul with senile vision to carry on his missions.

    His life was a Pilgrimage of Art
    Starry Night, an Illusionary Heart
    Swirls of inky infinity redundant
    To denote melancholia abundant
    For infinity was a fraction of consciousness
    And a forever of unconsciousness

    I wonder who was a mother to him, all his life ?
    Was it nature which pulled him with a gravity to his sanity ?
    Was it those colors which sprayed his hollow life with blues and greys ?
    Was it art that filled his lungs along with scarce breath and sadistic smoke ?
    Was it those delusional dreams that was a hiraeth to his haunted self ?
    Was it those psychedelic elipses intermittently visiting his troubled psyche ?
    Was it the yellow hues that painted his self inside out ?
    Was it the starry nights of overwhelming solitude ?
    Was it the magical synergy of his solemn hands ?
    Was it the frozen time to the warmth of life or the frozen hearts who alienated his fiery soul ?

    Maybe his whole life, he was in hibernation -
    breathing between ereely silent walls, clutching paintbrushes for life, often eating bread and coffee alone, even the yellow paint to feel some bliss, inhaling tobacco in hopes of relief, drinking away untold pain, smoking and coughing vapours of murky clouds, intermittent episodes of hallucinations, successful attempts of self harming, including self-mutilation and at last his suicidal act, which culminated in death a while later - to finally wake up to death.
    / Death is not the opposite of life
    Rather its a part of life, its purpose /

    Or was the entire world in hibernation to this man's whole existence ? To His ART ?

    Which spoke volumes about abundant pain synergized to redolent art.
    Was he aware of the heights his delirium took him to ?
    Or was he a nomadic bird flying with severed wings of sewed dreams towards an illusionary empyrean ?

    / Who took his own life in the " vast fields of wheat under turbulent skies " that represented his "sadness and extreme loneliness" /

    Who succumbed to the everlasting sadness, without any remorse ?
    Who found solace in his own hands that held a weapon instead of the familiar paintbrush ?

    / Who was called a "le fou roux" (the redheaded madman)
    A misunderstood genius in whom insanity and creativity converge /

    Did he wake up from his hibernation from a hallucinatory hell to a healing heaven ?
    Or is he drowning in the clouds above, swimming in pain and paddling tears of treasure ?
    Is he up there painting the heavens in holistic hues ?
    Or did his existence dissipate into a hollow world of spiraling spells ?
    What if he is a resident of the imaginary township with the twirling cypress towers and starry swirls overlapping the inky night ?

    / "canvases will tell you what I cannot say in words " /

    While my wet ink dries my tears
    Staring at his soul that disappear
    I couldn't say goodbye to a soul
    So lost yet found elsewhere toil
    And I unearth more of his mysteries
    To sew more metaphors in my verses


    2 #ak_to_vincent ��

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  • ak_anjali_daydreamzz 36w

    #iconography #wod #pod I don't know what this is (*_*)
    / Quotations cited /
    Rest written rights reserved
    8 May 2021 2.43 pm

    Vincent's Sunflowers ~

    / "that — ... that's... the flower’. You know that Jeannin has the peony, Quost has the hollyhock, but I have the sunflower, in a way."/

    Vincent woke ahead of the sun that day. His solemn resolve to capture the early morning in all its glory. Something has begun shifting inside him since he shifted to The Yellow House. He listened to the silent plea of the unfurnished rooms for adornments. Which he decided he could transform to a gallery to display his works. Among the series of his paintings, all for embellishing his artistic abode, was this special one, 'Still Life : Vase with Twelve Sunflowers'

    / 'Nothing but large sunflowers" , he had said /

    Sunflower - The flower that follows the trail of the sun. An ardent devotee of the source of light. A lover basking in the ever-shining warmth, blooming to witness the very sunbeams of life. They evoked intense passion in him to express it in varied shades of light on canvas. It was also a symbol of friendship and gratitude to him. Declaring himself that his paintings could express better than his words could ever convey.

    I imagine him walking briskly on a chilly morning to the valleys and wheat fields, landscapes of his Inspiration, allowing himself to amaze at the dawn-break and admire the blossoming sunflowers awoken to welcome the sun. One would think he might have carefully selected blossoms of perfect proportions in full bloom. But that's not him. He was a worshipper of natural shades, earthly tones, a free mind, without clutches of measurements and rules confining his artistic as well as personal freedom. Pondering over the benevolent nature and the nature of HIM, I picture him lazily caressing the blossoms and plucking those which spoke to him. Full bloom sunflowers that spread love and light in all vigour, those shy blooms, slightly stooping with a delicate yet dainty aura, stubborn blooms of thickly layered petals, proudly erect, late blooms with a lazy curve in petals, brooding with a tinge of melancholy, buds that aren't ready for the enlightened awakening yet as well as the withering dying bygone blossoms with wilted petals that have loved and lost, but LOVED nevertheless.

    / His 'purposeful' canvas was to be adorned in the richness of Yellow within moments /

    Yellow, the most meaningful color to him. He firmly believed it symbolizes emotional truth. A symbol of sunlight, life and God - all which he pursues to explore and indulge in. The wooden canvas was impatient and he was a man with a mission. He arranged them in a vase in greater profusion. His paintbrush immersed in hues of yellows, Strokes bold, curving and colorful. Those bold strokes evoked the passion of the blossoms and strips on canvas and curves of petals spoke a language of their own. In addition to that, the thick layered oil strokes enhanced the realism of it, evoking ' texture of the seed-heads'. The expressionism of his brush strokes was unparalleled.

    /" I'm painting with the gusto of a Marseillais eating bouillabaisse, which won't surprise you when it's a question of painting large sunflowers ... If I carry out this plan there'll be a dozen or so panels. The whole thing will therefore be a symphony in blue and yellow. I work on it all these mornings, from sunrise. Because the flowers wilt quickly and it's a matter of doing the whole thing in one go." /

    For some it would simply mean 'a bouquet of Sunflowers in a vase'. But it was not just the painter's art but the person's soul. His exploration with the bright yellow hues could be unintentional escapades from the ever blooming melancholia in his mind. His canvas, his colors and his textures - his ART was all what grounded his soul to the earth as a tether. He knew the inevitable consequences of delirious dances he often loses himself in, just as well as he knew those flowers will wilt within no time. The symphony he orchestrated with the hues of synergy, was destined to play on forever, even if he himself couldn't bask in the afterglow of his artistic bliss.

    He left swirls of hues and sunsets to mourn
    He left pieces of his soul in silken strokes
    He said, " The sadness will last forever"
    He also said, " The sunflower is mine"


    1 #ak_to_vincent ��

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  • sukhvir05singh 43w

    Chalta Hun

    Main raat bikhere chalta hun,
    Apne saath kahaniyan lekar chalta hun.
    Log nazar aaye mujhe, par duniya nazar naa aaye,
    Kuch aise khayalat lekar chalta hun.

    Main logon ke chehre padhta chalta hun,
    Logon ki baaton se uljha chalta hun,
    Mujhe sab sunayi aur dikhai deta hai,
    Par main hawa aur saaye ki tarah chalta hun

    Kai baar dil mein kitne sawal lekar chalta hun,
    Mera Aaghaaz toh hua, par Anjaam kya hoga, isse Anjaan hokar chalta hun,
    Sawaal toh yeh bhi satata hai, ki meri manzil kahan aur main kahan!
    Bas kuch aise sawalon ke jawab dhundhte chalta hun

    Main inn jawabon ko dhundhte kharab hote chalta hun,
    Khud mein kabhi jawab ko, toh kabhi jawab mein khud ko dhundhte chalta hun
    Meri majaal itni hai ke main kabhi jawab ko mafruza mein tabdeel karta hun,
    Aur inn mafruza se jawab ke badle, maathe pe shikan lekar chalta hun

    Akela hun main yeh soch dil pe bojh lekar chalta hun,
    Rishton mein khaamiyan dhundh ke unse door hoke chalta hun
    Woh ek rishta bunega unkaha, aisi umeed karta hun,
    Bas uss umeed mein main khush hokar chalta hun

    Yeh khushi meri kayam rahe, yeh bhi umeed lekar chalta hun,
    Umeed ke rang ko, yakeen ke rang se dhalne ka khwaab lekar chalta hun,
    Khwaab mere kitne saare, jo ginu toh kam padhe yeh chaand aur taare,
    Bas uss har ek khwaab ka farz adaa karte chalta hun

    Khwaab main kai dekhta hun, bas woh ek maqsad dhundhte chalta hun,
    Maqsad mujhe dikhta hai kai jagah, shayad usse undekha kar chalta hun,
    Ek maqsad hai chupa mere naam mein,
    Mere naam se shayad apni zindagi khojte chalta hun

    Kabhi muskurate, kabhi aasun bahate yuhi chalta hun,
    Zindagi ko kabhi tolta nahi, bas usse jeete chalta hun
    Ek jagah rukta nahi, main hazar khayalon mein chalta hun,
    Bas aise hi main apne saath raat bikhere chalta hun.


  • normancrane 65w

    Olive Orchard

    Let's lose our minds amongst the olive trees
    Labyrinth of oiled imagination
    Twirl like falling leaves / falling to our knees
    in unbalanced joy and veneration
    of ourselves. For there is nobody else
    but us; there is no other time but now,
    Red flowers bloom. A blue shadow propels
    a still landscape into being somehow
    fluid. Timelessly we swim, wet within
    each brush stroke branch and painted wave of wild
    emancipation— to forget the din
    of the wretched asylum. Vincent smiled:
    Dive too deep and you shall go insane,
    The olive grove remains the other side of the pane.

  • rishithakkar 69w


    you built a world,
    just formed yet wrecked,
    having flaws but beautiful,
    with imperfections yet perfect.

    how you saw the world,
    like no one else could see,
    not how it is,
    but how it could be.

    the nights that you skipped meals,
    and loneliness made you sad,
    how you lost yourself in art,
    when people called you mad.

    how valiant a brush,
    who painted till it's last breath,
    and no one could do Justice to it,
    after his master's death.

    you drank not for pleasure,
    but for how one dreams,
    to paint your only treasure,
    a world as beautiful as it seems.

    many pity you,
    for how you shot yourself dead,
    yet this is how you should've died,
    "in a simple bout of craziness" as you said.

    after two days of pain,
    at the end of your light,
    when as relief death arrived,
    that was the starry night.

    -Rishi Thakkar

  • normancrane 69w

    The Night Café

    A billiard table imprints its damp shadow
    on a yellow wooden floor. The game still
    unbegun, mere fragment of the sorrow
    felt by the patrons whose wilted heads will
    still be here tomorrow, if tomorrow comes.
    Red walls distended by burning lamps
    and burned out hearts beating blood through ear drums:
    Reverie to the night god / Dreaming tramps
    drowning in their heads in lakes of absinthe
    color of the ceiling better than being
    awake but indefinitely absent.
    The lamps blink, eyes floating, speak all-seeing:
    Vincent, let us meet before you entreat
    the crows out of your head into the wheat.

  • simran2315 77w

    Some days I rhyme so pathetically...��
    But still....Prose<<< Poetry

    Picture credits- Vincent Van Gogh, Girl in the Woods, 1882.

    @writersnetwork @readwriteunite @mirakee #ceesrepost #darkacademia #vangogh #pod

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  • tracey8737 81w

    Entertaining My Thoughts

    Every day
    My life without you,
    Takes me to that place...

    I'm staring at the Milky Way. There I make a wish that would make Van Gogh proud.

    Every day
    My life without you,
    Takes me to that place...

    I'm looking out on the ocean, as the blue waves crash into the shore...only going so far.

    Every day
    My life without you,
    Takes me to that place...

    I sit on my porch, watching the sun set in the in the blue, Western sky.
    I'm reminded of your eyes and smile.

  • brokenchrysalis 92w

    Chaotic mind
    Starry night
    And the flow theory
    In insanity

  • beeblebroxwho 98w

    Starry Night is Lost

    Yellow gold, rolling fields of pain,
    You speak to me across the years,
    Your life cast away, in vain?


  • i_chaki 113w


    Cosmic Van Gogh!

    ©i.chaki ichaki.wordpress.com

  • itnacnar 118w

    La habitación de Van Gogh

    Llegué y te encontré acostada, tu piel desnuda, aterciopelada.
    Me sente en una silla que estaba a tu costado y nuestra habitación es como la de Van Gogh, yo no pinto pero tengo un girasol, mas brillante que el sol, más hermoso que un sol.

    (poesías ilustradas)

  • yosemitetwilight 120w

    van gogh

    sit with me beneath a star dusted sky and
    make a wish as they travel across this canvas.

    i wonder if we'd pray for the same thing;
    for our lovers to fall into our arms.

    and if they could grant only one wish,
    then I wish for you to have yours.

    contentment fills me as I fall into your happiness;
    just as these stars fall into the blanket of the night.


  • reglovespoetry 122w

    Vincent's Starry Night

    Midnight and meteorites
    Extradite like limonite
    The starlight reignite
    I recite in delight
    Could this be as dynamite
    As Vincent's Starry Night?

  • sealia 126w

    What is done in love is done well. -Vincent van Gogh

  • theia_00_ 133w

    Yellow Paint

    Maybe I could, you know, eat some dirt like I used to when I was a kid.
    Or maybe some Vaporub, you know, it's super addictive.
    Or should I start eating plastic, you know, to fit in the world, maybe.
    Or do you suggest cannibalism.
    Anything would do, I'm just looking for my Yellow paint; Van Gogh style.
    Something to make me feel whole again.
    There's a piece missing, a part of me gone.
    And I didn't bother chasing it back, maybe I chased it away.
    Do you think if I start eating myself, I'll be able to fill the missing part again?
    Or do you think I'm going crazy?