#blood

2170 posts
  • spontaneous_flow_of_emotion 2d

    In a single thrust, you pierce your knife inside me, wrenching my gut open. My blood pools on its translucent blade. I see my face reflected on its cool surface, my hot tears hazing it from your view.
    I see your knuckles white, holding tight, twisting the knife.
    ©spontaneous_flow_of_emotion

  • jpwriter 1w

    Frostbitten frozen
    White lips chapped
    Colossal cold winds
    Assuring no pleasure
    Fierce fought battle
    Skin pieced in broken glass
    The sun, a warrior of warmth
    Protector of the heated blood
    Found surreal survival
    Only one show love

  • akshay_vasu 1w

    Sometimes, she cried yellow tears while she bled the blue blood. And sometimes, she bled yellow blood while she cried the blue tears.

    - Akshay Vasu

  • ct_and_skylines 2w

    God

    God doesn’t know of the danger
    that’s in view.
    God doesn’t know what’s around
    the corner that’s why it sent you.
    “Learn for me” it says, experience the pain.
    Don’t tear your eyes out along the way; I need them to see the mistakes I’ve made.
    Plug your soul into the world around and pray for a hand when you start to drown.
    No god doesn’t know that’s why we are here.
    There’s no man in the clouds to console your fears.
    While we’re at it, I’ll bare it all and rip my heart inside out.
    No one will know the uniqueness of your pain and
    don’t expect god to know either,
    it has no fucking clue;
    that’s why it sent you.


    -Christian Taylor

  • _desaiagraja 6w

    Portrait

    Cotton candy skies reflects in her eyes,
    Wrapped by the lush, green & bright.

    Her cheek tinted in pink,
    And eternal beauty, she breath.
    Magic paint brush, perfectly blends.
    Cracked lips turned to cherry red.

    The throne studded rose,
    Tattooed on the back, of her neck.
    Crooked & hooked flowers in the gown,
    Illustrating her as immortal bijour.

    Blooming garland on her braided hair,
    But the flowers, oh so dead.
    And the fragrance was still intact,
    Smelt like a fresh blood extract.

    Portrait itself gave the clue.
    Dead poets painted it, for you.

    ©_desaiagraja

  • velrus 6w

    They shed blood for us, mother
    Looking for us, killing the innocent and naive,
    Oh the guilt! What must I do with it?

    ©velrus

  • blitzerr 6w

    Pencils in sand

    I have little pencils in my hand ,
    But there is no paper just sand
    Does it matter what I draw
    It wont last

    I can run and I can breathe
    I believe I am still on my feet
    Been standing much too long
    Can I rest ?


    You see I was always on the run
    Burnt my freedom in the sun ,
    Went too far before I knew, where am I ?
    Those Stars no longer show ,
    City lights chased them all
    Moon can still timidly glow , so is it fine ?

    Can I get a moment to be still
    Let the future pass if it will
    I am tired of the drill
    Can I now heal ?

    My heart aches for the snow
    For the rain I used to know
    For the wings I tried to grow
    Can I now fly ?

    You see I cant say I know the pain
    The daggers were thrown in drain
    The blood whispered in vain , please cry .
    Did the sea guessed it all
    Before the river made its fall
    Or nothing matters anymore , cause it dried.

    You see I was always on the run
    Burnt my freedom in the sun ,
    Went too far before I knew, where am I ?
    Those Stars no longer show ,
    City lights chased them all
    Moon can still timidly glow , Its not fine .
    ©blitzerr

  • mahtobpensdown 7w

    ����Yayyayy ���� my 4th EC ���� Thank you #miraquill and #writersnetwork����

    The Jallianwala Bagh massacre, also known as the Amritsar massacre, took place on 13 April 1919. A large but peaceful crowd had gathered at the Jallianwala Bagh in Amritsar, Punjab to protest against the arrest of pro-Indian independence leaders Dr. Saifuddin Kitchlew and Dr. Satya Pal.

    The Rowlatt Act (Black Act) was passed on March 10, 1919, authorizing the government to imprison or confine, without a trial, any person associated with seditious activities. This led to nationwide unrest. Gandhi initiated Satyagraha to protest against the Rowlatt Act.

    Jallianwala Bagh Massacre: The British forces fired indiscriminately on a large and peaceful gathering of protesters, killing over 1,000 people and wounding hundreds of them. Prime Minister Narendra Modi will inaugurate the renovated complex of Jallianwala Bagh memorial today, August 28 via video conference.28-Aug-2021

    - Google


    #topography #wod #miraquill #writersnetwork #poetry #poems #life #blood #dailychallenge #challenge #thoughts #ceesreposts #repost

    @miraquill @writersnetwork @soulful_scriptings @historyinfinite @childauthor_345

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    Jallianwalaa Bagh

    Laden with blood lay the soldiers
    Enemies of mankind, aren't easily forgiven
    Splinched and splattered with terror
    Many jumped in well to attain martyrs
    The masscare was huge as the outcry
    Opposing British Empire rule
    Not live under tyranny and better die
    Engaged on the battlefield, no one feared
    Outclass those who suppress
    Not to impress; human emotions expressed
    Remembered for the glory; the first war
    India saw Jallianwalaa Bagh massacre
    As thirst for freedom was immense!
    Thousands fight, under King directions
    Forget we are temporary in this world;
    And the sole King is The Lord in your heart!
    ©mahtobpensdown

    ( EC ( 4th ))

  • trusty 9w

    I don't want to kiss your make up
    I want to kiss the real you with blemishes
    Coz when i only kiss your feet
    my heart makes a rhythmic beat
    and If I'd be the blood of your heart
    I'll flow in your every part
    ©trusty

  • dr_fake 9w

    Yo(U)

    Often makes me realise by my slow breaths that the flowing liquid within is U in colour!

    © नीर

  • muskaanbhatt_ 10w

    It's our pride not an embarrassment as this thing is giving everything a woman needs in her life, its giving her a value which men lack, they do have other values except this ,or if any woman is not having this thing in her life, and having many problems in life and facing jeers and bad insults of not having periods or not able to give birth, remember she still is strong and having much much value, and as only women are capable to give birth to mankind.

    #pod #wod #quote #blood #life #like
    @miraquill @writersnetwork

    Thanks @writersnetwork for the ❤

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    Menstrual Cycle

    Bright red blood flowing every month with such a loyalty
    Considered an Embarrassment which is actually a pride and not so ugly

    Without this a woman has no value and there will be no mankind
    So, Why we feeling ashamed when people talk and ask about this and be quiet

    This isn't any crime and shame
    Then why men seeing this as lame

    Every month a woman suffers severe pain and those bad cramps
    She goes through depression with a bit anxiety and lock herself in a room and turn off all the lamps

    With different mood swings and not allowed eating everything
    From 3-5 days she can't even have a good sleep,comfortable positions to sit and tolerating every minute hormone imbalancing

    Baring affliction for a lot of days in a year and lose so much of blood
    So strong a woman is as because a man won't even able to tolerate a bit of such a red flood

    From Ancient times till today to the upcoming generation
    This was happening far before and will still go on with so much suffering and without hospitalisation

    When it's a proud and a hope for giving birth to men
    Then why men thought of this as a shameful filthy thing and neglects it's trauma which she bare as a women

    Instead of supporting her and giving solace
    Why people see her in these days as a disgrace

    Why to feel shy about this when our religion and science is openly speaking about this
    Every other person knowing about this but pretending they know nothing and not want to know and never resists

    When we won't stand with each other as women to take periods as a prideful thing
    Then till the resurrection day women's menstrual cycles will be seen as a dirtiest thing

    ©muskaanbhatt_

  • mystique_charm 11w

    Pool of red, I lay in pain...
    Had poisoned myself...
    Knew it had turned sour...
    Still kept drinking, till I fell ill...
    The toxins overflowed, drowning my soul...
    It was the end of me...
    Had to cut it out...
    Bleed out the bane...
    Burn away the rotten parts...
    The tumor is finally dead.
    ©mystique_charm

  • aesthete_foreverr 12w

    My heart ached and shattered a little
    then, it bled.
    And I wrote a Poetry out of that blood!!

    ©aesthete_foreverr

  • sourcoated 14w

    Slit

    I'm hesitant at first, and in a quick and satisfying sweep, I break skin.
    Red starts to form on the slit in little beads just big enough to look like a shiny bracelet on my wrist.
    It only takes a bit for the thoughts to sink in
    And I crave more.
    I continue two at a time until the beads are gone and the blood looks like a brush stroke, as if my sinful thoughts are creating a sinister painting on my body.
    I keep going until I am but a mess of of raw, bumpy, white flesh with tiny dots of blood scattered around like a ghoulish, yet elegant glass mosaic.
    As I lose consciousness, I feel that I'm finally satisfied... for now.

    ©sourcoated

  • pallavi4 14w

    Shaken

    Something was strange today. The cold breeze brushing past my face had numbed my senses. The floor beneath my feet seemed to be cold and clammy.

    I moved stealthily towards the bedroom on the first floor of the quiet house. He hadn’t noticed me standing near the dinning table laying out dinner. He had simply unlocked the house and quickly bound up the stairs for the first time without flinging his laptop bag near the front door. There was no “honey I’m home” today.
    Something was definitely amiss.

    Only when I switched on the lights of the corridor at the top of the stairs, I noticed the droplets of blood forming an unmistakable trail till the bedroom door. What could’ve possibly happened ? I was drenched with sweat and awash with fear. Was he hurt ? Had he hurt someone? There was no way to know other than to ask him. Maybe he would simply tell me himself. Offer some sort of explanation. I slowly opened the bedroom door and stood there in the doorway, listening to the shower stop and the curtain being pulled to one side. The trail had followed his path till the bathroom door, which was shut. A sudden terror clutched my heart. Oh god please let him not have hurt someone , I prayed .

    He walked out of the bathroom wearing a robe and with a towel in his hand, rubbing his hair which was wet from the shower. The laptop bag I noticed had been flung outside on the table beside the bathroom . It had a blood stained handprint on it. He however was extremely nonchalant. He greeted me with a wink and a smile and kissed my forehead. Then while whistling, he began to get dressed. There was no mention of the blood.
    Not a word.

    I was both shaken and stirred. So many questions were in my mind but refused to form words . Jittery I turned on my heel and walked downstairs . The nagging questions about the drops of blood on the floor and the laptop bag refused to leave my head. As I finished laying the table and the dinner, cheerfully he bounded down the stairs and sat down to eat, talking about his day and work . I on the other hand was completely lost in my own thoughts and oblivious to what he was saying . We finished eating , washed up and headed to sleep.

    As I slipped into the warmth of the blankets , the storm inside came to a head and my thoughts refused to stop pacing. He on the other hand quietly got in on his side, picked up the book by his bed and began reading . As though nothing had happened. Should I be scared? What was he hiding ? Whose blood was that because he seemed to be unhurt? What should I do?

    Scared of the man I’d married just a couple of months back, I fell asleep unsteadily and dreamt of deers being chased and hunted. There was blood everywhere in my sordid dream and a strange end to an even stranger evening.

    @pallavi4

    20th of October, 2021

    Pic credit: Pinterest, picture credited to its rightful owner

    #stormc #storm #stories #scared #blood #writersbay @writersbay @writersnetwork #miraquill #writersnetwork #poetry #pod #writerscommunity @miraquill

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  • in_fragments 15w

    Yay for lifelong medical battles... cancer... autoimmune diseases... bloodwork and hospital appointments since childhood... at least I'm turning it all into something creative that feels worth something now. I'm not just a guinea pig anymore.
    #pod #poem #blood #work #medical #trauma #thoughts #mentalhealth #mentalillness #selfcare #recovery @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Blood Work

    A tourniquet, tied tightly
    around my arm once again
    as I squeeze my fist
    to find the perfect vein-
    tap it, watch it rise
    to the surface of my skin like a wire;
    clean the spot with alcohol,
    look away and prepare
    for the thousandth little pinch
    of the familiar and stoic needle...

    Blood pulls away from me
    into the doctor's long glass tubes-
    their syringe fills up with vibrant,
    vermillion liquid, sloshing up fast.
    I feel it pushing out of me,
    red soda sucked through a straw
    between two thirsty lips;
    after so many decades,
    the flow is recognizably rhythmic
    and draws the sanguine fluid out
    on beat; a little heart force,
    a pulsating sensation
    in the soft side of my right elbow-
    a little bit of draining, all up my arm;
    a piece of life being tugged away
    from me, later be used to create me.

    Switch out another cylinder,
    until I watch them fill up three-
    cover the spot with a cotton pad,
    with the needle still inside,
    then taken quickly out
    just as easily as it came in.
    There is an art to drawing blood,
    and every three months
    I am required to collaborate
    to create my own clean
    hemoglobin masterpieces-
    for under microscopes
    and through test tubes,
    you can measure every chemical
    and mutation inside, monitor
    the uncontrolled cells that make up
    your own personal madness.

    From now on, the needle is my pen,
    turning chronic illness into creativity,
    another long and deep well
    to draw from.

    My dried life force lies
    in between pages and poems,
    betwixt the tiles of childhood bathrooms,
    stained on old long sleeves.
    Emotions linger like dust
    in the silent spaces
    between language and thought.
    I am not gone. I have been in
    and out of test tubes for decades,
    in biohazard bins all across the coast,
    seen only by a privileged few
    who were smart enough to handle me.

    My artwork is the real blood work,
    the pen can suck me through it
    like a tiny medical needle
    and I spill my truths all over the canvas.
    You need blood to create art,
    so for the rest of my life,
    as I give myself continuously to tubes,
    and machines and medications
    and disorders- a lifelong battle,
    I've accepted my fate;
    the art is the only channel
    I have ever had for all that blood.
    A pen is a needle, gliding across
    white paper like skin,
    pushing words in with sharp tips
    that protrude from the page like veins.

    For my sanity, it's all the same to me.
    ©in_fragments

  • naqsaif 16w

    #death#dress#blood#hyacinth#hyacinthus#apollo#willow#winter#flower
    @miraquill
    @writersnetwork
    @writersbay
    @mirakeeassistant
    #wod
    #pod


    "As the seed buried in the earth cannot imagine itself as an orchid or hyacinth, neither can a heart packed with hurt imagine itself loved or at peace. The courage of the seed is that once cracking, it cracks all the way." ~ Mark Nepo

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    Hyacinths

    In a white dress
    Stained with blood
    I stood among the
    Blooming hyacinths
    Looking down
    At your cold grave
    Half wet with rain
    Half with my tears
    My throat coughed blood
    And my nails digged
    The soil beneath your grave

    I screamed your name
    Till I passed out
    The hyacinths on your grave
    Told me to leave
    Rainy days
    Turned colder
    The hyacinths
    Died from winter
    Lucky were they
    To be found by death
    Before the next winter

    While I stil await
    In my white dress
    Kissing the dead hyacinths
    On your frozen grave
    Hoping that
    The next time it rains
    These hyacinths
    Will bloom
    on My grave.



    ©naqsaif

  • away_with_words 17w

    Family isn't blood.... its who's there when you're bleeding.

  • cleopatra_verse 19w

    Shots

    On my worst days,
    I pour a little water
    In my favorite cup,
    Swirl all my problems into it,
    And knock it back like a pro.

    Some days I pretend it's vodka,
    Some days it's the blood of Jesus
    Either way, for me,
    This washing is salvation.
    ©cleopatra_verse

  • sobiya_amin 51w

    دھکا نہیں جو کسی سفید چادر سے
    میرے جنت میں وہ لہو کا نشان تھا
    ©sobiya_amin