An unknown song plays on the radio, with broken signals faraway from the balcony ,where I stand. There is no nostalgia smelling in the air, instead there is nothingness breathing into me. I have stopped feeling, stopped loving, stopped hating, stopped crying but I do smile , a little To myself, To the skies, To the Sunflowers in me.
12:00 am, And now the radio unconsciously plays my favourite song. But since a few days, I don't sing along. My life wasn't meant to be a luxurious perfectly trimmed garden with pruned roses ,Lilies, and colorful butterflies. My life was meant to be an art. I wanted it to be an art, With grounds full of mosses, wildflowers Scattered garlands, mismatched hues, Ruined paintings, Incomplete poesies, Burnt songs, Broken pallates.
I have changed. Changed exorbitantly just in a few nights. I stopped whining about my broken wings or bloodless tears. I stopped thinking before writing anything. I stopped talking. But I am still kind, To myself, To the skies, To the Sunflowers in me.
Writer, They called me. A title ? I am not confined to a title. Words are just a material in this materialistic world. And I never belonged here. I was never good with words, and I wouldn't be. Perhaps I don't want to be either. I have always belonged to the spaces between my words or the thoughts at the back of my mind, to whom mere words won't do any justice. I sighed and looked at the sky, Because, I have already stopped writing these days, I stopped singing along with the glitches on the radio, But I do read, A little To myself To the skies, To the Sunflowers in me.
I was never a poet, Neither am I today, Howbeit, I may write about Several predicaments, And sometimes love. Erratically, something artistic, Or sometimes my own guilts and griefs. What exactly is a poetry? An ornamental arrangement of simple words. I write about love, Yet I have never fallen in. I distribute some fancy words, Grammatically making sense, And people call me a poet. Poet, yet another fancy word. Where's thy human self gone ? Write about castes, when you are a racist. Write about equality, when you are a feminist. Does that makes sense ? Being what you aren't, Is an art of lying, (An art nonetheless.) We humans romantacize art, And we ourselves are a disdain (A softer way of saying trash ) And here was born hypocrisy, We say, we write, we are, The best part is, The three are in a stark contrast. We aren't a single person, But a mirror, A mirror , that is different for all visages, No identity, Mirrors can't look itself in its face. We materialistically describe identities as a name, We are bunch of titles, Laying it on thick, And being someone we aren't. We are a body with counted hours, No evidence of arrival or departure, We are trying to make these hours, A heading. Time isn't about collecting titles, It's about being broad, Because labels are confining, Likewise, I ain't a poet, I ain't confined to the words or spaces or full stops, I ain't someone who writes, I am someone who lives, I am someone who observes, My counted hours should reflect me, I am kind and good, A person gifted with a limited amount of energy, Hereby, I am content.
Tear the pages of your journal, The ones where you wrote love poetries, Straighten the creases of the your old sagaciousness, And scribble insanity at the margins, Use wax crayons over your metaphors. Neatly fold the pasteled edges, And paint them with your artistry , the hues of the mighty sky. Pluck the stars from the moon, And glue them on the tawny sheet. Put smiles inside, They are beautiful. Write about love, Love is rare. Whisper your secrets, Let it write poetries, Paste the corners with your favorite lyrics, And let the glossy page rhyme and sing, Fabricate the wings delicately, It's meant to fly. Leave it on the zephyrs and evening winds, The sanguine skies, Let it soar towards the unknown strangers, Let it kiss the neighbor backstreet, Telling him tales about your poetries, Let it fall in love with him, Let it live, Let it be a heart.
In the evening, A foggy, lavish sunset, Hazily seeps inside , Behind the hilly heads, And the drunken winds, Stumble on cheeks and neck, The cloudy-poetic sky, Shimmering with blues and reds, Far away the valleys, Silent, magnificent and untread. The distant burbling of the brook and the fall, Bubbling and gurgling as the waters ascend, Kissing the rocky earths and sands, Psithurism rings, ruffle of leaves, The faraway birds reciting resonating tales of foreign lovers, Something as peaceful as you dreamt, Tingles your ears, Swishing and intoxicating your head, My heart is entangled in the pine stems, And my imageries fall, with the dew-shed, My poetries are distant hills songs, Reverberating and the rhyming breezes that crept, Those hills and mountains are calling, The abstracted lands are waiting unslept, My heart and soul cuddles in the lush valles, Dance ,my love, rejoice in the winds, Amidst the sublime heights, the skies has blisses stretched.
- Ananya (Mera dil kaheen door, pahadon mai kho gaya)
____________________ Long time, rhyming poetries. Does it even rhyme, idk ? ;_; I couldn't stop myself, mountains are love.
totempoleMountains surely are lovely, dark and deep, Especially to the clear of heart, Adventurist's tugging chord, Explorer spirit, Eager heart, Lover potentiate, et all.. It is the mind which is always the limiting factor. The reigns to every heart is invariably the mind. Wonderfully woven tapestry of thoughts and words... Very nice..
The rains cascading the rooftops, Petrichor for stale adjectives, Crippled imageries squint out of the window, Grafitti on the town walls, Screaming, crying, seeking. Help, subdued wants and tears, Confetti of mouldy metaphors, Littered the floor. Black garlands, mourning for the gone, Empty chairs and bleak corners, Feeble neon phrases taped on the ceiling, Skies having falling st(c)ars, Graves of syllables dotting the view, Words needed for the eulogy at the funeral of my words, Can I borrow your's? Lyrics after lyrics, Poetries after poetries, Shot dead in the brutal war. The pens have lost the colors , inking tears around, The houses are hollow, The streets are empty, The silhouettes of ballads haunts my nightmares, Everything's gone, The ancient city is empty, I have lost all my poetries, In the vicious massacre, Caused by me, me alone, My words are dead, And my words are dead.
Yesternight, I stripped down the Scribbled sticky notes from My delusional, dolorous desk , And taped the printed pictures , Of nature and roads, The roads that lead nowhere, The roads that were dark, The roads that were rainy, The roads that were supposed to be soothing and help me study. The post-it notes that once contained my worded demons, And my late night phantasm, Were all shredded in the bin. They weren't dark or scary, The problem was they were too colourful, Like blinding, agonized confetti on the city walls, Like the flare piercing your retina, And like visual pollution in my workplace. The monsters scribbled on the bits of neon papers used to emanate outside, And made their way to my poetries, Where I'll dress them as metaphors, Drench them in my rhymes, Bejeweled with fascinating imageries, And you'll read them, and praise the written rhyming poetries , I won’t blame you, People out there have always glorified art I too had Oscar wilde and Bukowski on the taped paper, The fact that we read the demons exiting inside another human and pin it on our boards, makes them more interesting, Or maybe
I was never a poet and neither am I today, It's the fiends dancing over , Or perhaps the devil and the angel both. My devils have glamorized themselves through my words, My monsters aren't monsters in my poetries, They are beautiful spaces and full stops, And even more the very words, We all find attractive, somehow.
Last night, When I was plundering an year old notes from the table, I was so provoked and frenzied, That I was listening to the Fray's , " How to save a life" , That said, "And I would have stayed up with you all night Had I known how to save a life." And to the lyrics my hands moved carefully removing my grafitti, And I realized, In a single year, How I have learnt to romanticize
shrey2310Hey the recent poem of yours Thf 2nd last sfanza, of those demons and all, there should be glamorized* in place of glamrized. Correct it when you get time. Truly a nice work behind that poem :")
aesthetexx@shrey2310 ohh yes, kal se itne typo correct kar chuki hoon mai :b .lol , me and my spellings. Thankyou again shrey for the correction and praises, means so much ❤
All the sombre cries, Coalesce on the gentle earth, The subtle land weeps with myraid tears, Those drops, Finely stringed, Carefully picked, Sublime and fine. The old crouch lady, Bearing the ancient cane basket, She intwines the thread, Twirling in her bygone spinning wheel, Her long, artistic ,wrinkled fingers, Rhythmatically move, Braiding the minute threads with utmost perfection, As she weaves, A little glint of pink, purple, Crimson, grey , indigo, And lots of whites and silvers, Her hands gyrating tirelessly, As she creates huge cotton balls, A satiny bed for the birds to rest, And sing lullaby, as the tired twilight grins, And candy floss for the naughty kid, A delicate veil for the shy heaven, A huge gateway for the protruding sunbeams, Fleecy clothes for the naked sky, As the looms create huge cotton balls, Dangling on the ends of the azure sky, Soaking the sweat and tears, Hefty clouds, Bathe the earth in glee and joys.
Walking down the high roads , all drenched in singing metaphors , she walks hand-in-hand with the words, that are already forgotten by the world, running her hands through the paint brushes, on the roadside shop , stops to the one with golden motifs, her polychrome eyes now search for colours, she kisses the rainbow paints , and takes blacks too, because she knows the dark sings more beautiful elegies, intoxicated in the lyrics, she returns to her cottage home, places the goods and chattels on the wooden floor , sipping her scorched coffee , she lays out a flawless canvas, stroking the bristles of the glossed brush, she thinks of a way to stain the white, winds are now smiling, swirling hard, but outside her window is warm, Dusk is round the corner , the sun bids farewell and the sky turns brown, her foundling hands tickles the canvas, as she applies on it , colours, one by one , in a bubble where she resides, she paints herself in poetries ,unsung.
________________________________________ Tell me it makes sense;_;
Thankyou WN. I am grateful ♡´･ᴗ･`♡ (4th) 24.01.2021 #annwn
Thumbnail: Poetry Poetry hums plain sedate tunes, Phlegmatically hypnotized, I walk in it's imagery, Peripatetic, as I am ,runs my hands through it's rhythm and metaphors, Passion surges , as the ballads coordinate, Psithurism rings inside my wits, Pensive pens as I hold in my hands, Phrases escape from my senses to the placid parchment, making a poetry.
_____________________________________ Sorry for not checking the syllables. :")
This was unexpected. Thank you Wn. (3rd huh? ) ♀️#annwn 18.01.2021
. Leaves blooming tenderly, Delicately, etherally virescent. Soft like the infant's skin, The sky smiled, The tree's wombs fertilized, The satiny leaf blinked, Adjusting to the new sun.
, Leaves, big and broad, Sculpted shapes with utmost perfection, The intricate mesh adorning the gloss, Lush greens sheened around, Frisky leaves singing ditties.
, The leaves tawny, in the fresh auburn, Half in yellows, half in browns, Age dawned on them, Wilted and tired drooped down, Dusk was rapid , and nearer was the ground.
I sat under the shady tree, the confetti of leaves adorned the aura, A pen and a tawny parchment, As the leaves kissed the earth in tender stroke, The mud caressed the fallen, The sky cried, Effervescence of petrichor, , .
------------------------------------------------ #storyofaleaf Sorry for the bad concrete. Does it look funny?
Thumbnail: I write poetries, Just like a leaf blooming, singing and dying. And I am a poet, As I write the last of words to my poetry, My words die, In the lap of paper, Just like fallen leaves on Mother Earth, Perhaps, Giving birth to new.
The last of raindrops, Bid their goodbye, kissing the fresh earth, And the mellow sunshine, Woke up warming the cloudy sky, The effervescence of petrichor, Blooming from the aromatic air, And there was the rainbow, The symbol of chromatic life, Sprouting with the first band of colour-
Veiled the tiny face, the pink cheeks, smiling toothless with grace, The mini arms and legs, Playing with the air, The beauty delicate and bare, Welcoming the tiny soul, in prayer.
Imitating the mother's ideals, The first foot, straight and stern. Immense proud, Oh my! He learns, The bouncing, unstable feet, He has learnt, oh yes, tiny legs proceed.
Beginnings are difficult, First day to school, Oh mother! He cried and cried with tears so real, The tiny body hanging a tiny bag, The smiling teacher needs to drag.
Grieving all alone, Life's so difficult, Everything is so unfair. And the mid teen exposed to life, Where he was afraid to strife. Everything growing in standards, And the paths confusingly meandered.
Youthful as he stood, Already refined from the crude, The life was below and everything else above, It was still difficult , but now we were indeed tough. It was an unattached living, Nothing but partying, dancing and singing.
Odyssey was the mid age, With a lovable partner and the children so naive, A beautiful home, The second last of chrome, Now what was left, Was to make his little ones good and modest.
Reaching the last in line, With loads of experience and a glass of wine, The grandchild hears the stories, From wrinkled mouths-of fairies and glories, And he tells the little one,
||Now they had their setting sun, Their spectrum is fully bloomed, The night shining with stars will be back soon, As the colours will merge into one, and finally all in black, And someday, when it will rain again, The sun will start weaving a new rainbow frame.|| ~Ananya