#narrative

147 posts
  • in_fragments 4w

    This is a direct continuation of my FLOWER GIRL poem from a few weeks ago, inspired by @murryben's old profile picture. Think of this as part two please, and read that poem first if you really want to understand it.
    Flower Girl is up and moving now, transforming into something else entirely.
    #pod #narrative #poem #story #horror #insects @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Bug Mother Box (Flower Girl Part 2)

    The Flower Girl wanders,
    crawls through the dense forest,
    disoriented and hopelessly absent
    behind her own eyes.
    Old leaves like piles of corpses
    are brown and rotting,
    a winter not cold enough for snow-
    the ground feels slimy on her skin,
    smoggy and wet; the sky a deep gray
    like a disappointed face
    arrived to suck the soul from trembling lips.
    Humidity sticks itself
    all over her naked body, dewdrops fall
    into her open chest and the air
    envelops around shrivelled organs,
    a sternum made hollow from exposure,
    past a cracked pelvic bone
    and gnarled fallopian tubes
    twisted tightly all around their walls
    making every step feel heavy
    and every rattle of an organ
    seem like her insides could fall
    right out from her bottom lips;
    like a body breaking the surface of water,
    like a stillborn child, something once within
    but ripped away in confusion and grief,
    like every winter she couldn't remember.

    Her flowers have all died now,
    she's pulled out all the stems
    there was once so much comfort in,
    and her legs proceed to bleed,
    all up and down, with thorns and dirt
    lining her hands, thighs and feet.
    Her ankles, still bound
    by deep and unseen underground roots,
    brown shackles thick and wide
    that pull up with each step,
    decimating the soil as she goes,
    disturbing everything-
    but still she cannot cut them off.
    Her brain starts to spin as vertigo sets in,
    she falls down in resignation,
    wallowing in pain, waiting for death
    to snatch her weary soul away
    when a huge, hairy spider- a tarantula
    the size of her palm runs itself
    right along her body, as if to analyze
    the big dying thing.
    Uninhibited, it passes right by her then,
    over to the base of a large sycamore tree
    with its fat trunk and expansive branches.
    The spider stands atop
    a small wooden box, camouflaged
    by the decay that surrounds it,
    and stares back at her,
    eye to lateral eye, almost daring her
    to discover the secrets inside,
    as if they were waiting only for her.
    She picks the box up and opens it as
    the spider glides onto her shoulder to witness.
    Inside it lies large needles and thread,
    and a dirty, off-white dress she felt
    must have once been hers, and pictures
    of people she used to know,
    memories she no longer has
    of herself and others- her baby photo,
    the recognition clicks,
    had WELCOME BACK written in red
    on its side. She finds an empty journal
    and a cup of black ink- must have forgotten
    a fountain pen or two- a fresh pink zinnia
    sits quietly where one should be.
    Meanwhile, hoardes of insects
    fly out almost impossibly, like they never
    awakened until she opened the lock.
    Cockroaches and ants, butterflies
    and caterpillars, centipedes and spiders
    run along her skin like children,
    rushing to her aid, to play their games
    and pull her through the fog.

    Flower girl takes the needles
    and sews herself back up
    with the thread, crying out,
    pulling skin together section by section,
    beginning at her pelvis
    all the way up
    to her throat, where the needle
    hangs like jewelry, grazes her chest
    like a necklace, a constant reminder
    of how easy it would be
    to succumb to the unraveling of agony,
    and how much anguish one body must hold
    in order to heal the spirit.
    With the blood-spattered zinnia
    in one hand, the box
    of forgotten posessions in the other,
    she covers her mangled body with the dress
    and her shaky legs gain strength
    to walk, pulling up her roots
    as she moves.
    The insects follow her- centipedes insist
    on resting along her back as spiders
    steal her shoulders,
    caterpillars and ants crawl up and down
    to tighten her stitches as three
    small but beautiful butterflies
    fly into her chest through the open space,
    the fluttering of their wings
    causing her heart to beat once again
    ressureccting the insides so ready to die.
    Their vibrations bring her back to life,
    and sometimes you can see them flying,
    keeping watch through the gaps of skin
    on her torso. The cockroaches lead her
    from the forest floor, zooming
    across her ankles to help her find direction.
    They all follow the roots now,
    hoping they will finally lead her home
    as they embark on the next trail
    carrying the first pieces
    of a dauntingly large cosmic puzzle,
    surely coming upon
    the end of the beginning.
    Gray skies turn to black
    as the night rises,
    and the real test commences
    for Flower Girl- no longer sitting, idle
    and waiting for nothing, but preparing
    to face every inner wound she hid from.
    Not knowing where she's going,
    still she walks with grace and energy;
    for there are too many monsters left to slay
    to stay in one place in unjustified comfort.
    Flower Girl becomes Bug Mother,
    embraces the darkness
    and lets the distress lead her.
    The amnesia will show her the way-
    a path backwards in time,
    moments uncovered and exorcised
    to lead her mind forward-
    without knowing, she knows it all.
    ©in_fragments

  • aarzu_words 6w

    Life wrote untold narrative
    ©aarzu_words

  • bloody_eyes 7w

    Slowly, I open my eyes, regaining awareness. The world around me appeared to be hazy. My head ached. The last thing I remember is being followed and helped but oddly. I was breathless, I needed time to stop. I was hidden behind a tree in the cemetery. My clothing was ripped at the edges, and I had bruises on my knees and arms, as well as being scuffed in many places. I've always been curious about how my brother died. There is a whole made-up story about my brother- about how he died but I knew that it wasn't the real cause for his death.

    The cemetery was bleak, dark, and gloomy. A gnarled old oak tree leaned against the gate, and broken, damaged headstones were strewn about. The roaring wind and the creak and groan of leaves as they swung in the storm were audible. Fear and decaying leaves flooded my nose, and I swallowed hard, terrified of being ill.

    I heard another noise as I headed towards my brother's grave. It was the sound of heavy, sluggish footsteps. When I looked around, I saw a tall, muscular man approaching me.

    I screamed above the wind, "I don't think this is such a good idea." “It's too late to alter your mind,” the guy said, his voice low and menacing. “Either we dig him now or you spend the rest of your life trying to figure out how he died.”
    “Ok..”, I mumbled.

    I vividly remember the day when two army officials came to my house to inform me that my brother had died. Their cold, harsh expressions spoke a little when I inquired about how he died. They would only state, "Killed in the course of duty." Everything else was labelled as "classified." They handed me a letter from my brother, saluted, and then walked away, leaving me dazed, bewildered, and sad.

    My brother's death was too much for me to handle. With shaking fingers, I finally opened the letter, but only one sentence glared back at me. “I'll always be there for you, John, brother.” What did he mean by that? How could he possibly be with me again? He was dead already.

    Now I was digging with a rusted shovel in my hands, eager to find the truth. My brother's coffin began to emerge from behind the layers of sodden dirt as the scar-faced man beside me started digging at the other end. I started to feel panicked when faced with this moment of reality. What if I'm completely wrong? I knew John despised the army and desired to be released.

    I gazed down at the coffin as my hired assistant tugged away the lid with a crowbar. The lid flew back with a loud snap, revealing the frozen lifeless corpse inside. The fact that there was a dead guy in the casket brought a sigh of comfort to my whole body. It wasn't John.

    – ��������������☕︎

    ps: This was one of my creative writings (IGCSE), a narrative, where the title had to be "lost". @writersnetwork @miraquill #lost #story #narrative #mystery

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    “LOST”

    ©bloody_eyes

  • in_fragments 9w

    Been depressed, fighting thoughts of suicide lately, thinking about all the trees I used to climb, how they're changing mostly for the worst. These cycles come and go for me- on Unbearable Depression Mode in this poem. But at least I have to stay alive to write a poem about dying. Even when they're horrific and sad, the words keep me here every single day. I can never stop for too long.

    If any you are experiencing these same scary things, be sure not to keep it bottled in. Talk to someone you trust and love, express it in a journal or a piece of art, find a therapist who can help guide you out of the darkness. You deserve to discover the light that's waiting for you. ��
    #pod #narrative #poem #thoughts #nature #trees #life #death #suicide #suicideawareness #depression #recovery @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Death Is A Tree In The Suburbs

    P̟a̟r̟t̟ O̟n̟e̟: R̟e̟f̟l̟e̟c̟t̟i̟o̟n̟s̟
    In my backyard,
    in this modern townhouse suburb,
    where the alleyways are grassy
    and venerable earth
    lies suffocated by cement;
    where evergreen pines and maple trees
    loom loftily over our homes;
    the scent of homemade barbeque
    wafts its way around,
    and children scream out in play,
    racing each other
    through their cul-de-sacs,
    circling back by the end of the day.

    Right now, the morning sun
    is arriving tall across our doors,
    bringing both disturbance
    and opportunity in its golden eye.
    My sight is becoming more obscured
    by the old tree outside my window-
    the one my parents planted
    when they moved in, 30 years before
    a future like mine was on their minds.
    It used to be so small,
    like every infant sapling, now it towers
    over every roof and moving horizon,
    clipping every sun ray
    behind the veins of large leaves...

    A grand, developed elm tree
    on the other side of our street;
    standing sure rooted
    next to the house on the end-
    the tree we would voraciously climb
    when we were loud, intrepid children,
    paying no mind
    to the old lady living inside; the one
    who screamed at us for climbing
    every time we tried,
    until the year she died
    and we had no idea. All we had known
    was that our favorite tree was back-
    because the old lady was dead,
    her home abandoned,
    and we were far too young
    to notice the peculiar change.

    Time doesn't wait for you
    to notice it, like the sky which races
    in circles at a speed too fast to feel,
    like the trees that keep growing
    without checking in for permission.
    Death is a tree in the suburbs-
    one too large to keep curated,
    so it is stunted or cut down; and Life
    is a pernicious vine,
    pestering the cracks in the sidewalk
    as it breaks its way through them,
    growing high and away from concrete
    or along the sides of wooden sheds;
    always going up, and up, and up...
    because nature may
    be dying at our hands- even still,
    it always wins out in the end.

    I wonder how high
    these tree branches will take me...
    Maybe up into the clouds,
    if I never, ever stop.
    Scaling their thick limbs, sitting midair
    is the closest we can come
    to flying without steel wings.
    What stands between Life and Death
    is air, and a body to get you up there-
    skin and bone, between tree and vine,
    surrounded by sky; the realm
    where life and death conjoin...





    P̟a̟r̟t̟ T̟w̟o̟: I̟d̟e̟a̟t̟i̟o̟n̟s̟
    I don't climb anymore.
    I've been too exhausted for decades.
    Now I grumble and bend and ache
    like the trees here do;
    one side of themselves trimmed
    completely away,
    half-dead with hardly a chance,
    and the stern winds pushing
    their branches close to snapping.
    Death is a tree in the suburbs-
    every one I've fallen from,
    every one that taught me
    how to feel alive-
    we continue to kill them,
    and I continue to die with them.
    It was all so different
    when we were younger.
    Now I helplessly watch it all oscillate,
    I get older, feel more ruinous,
    with less reason to be alive.
    The trees awaken towards the sun,
    they beckon me to climb my favorite one,
    they whisper this, "If you would die
    to see the beauty of this world
    one more time, then what have you
    to lose?"

    What have I to lose?





    P̟a̟r̟t̟ T̟h̟r̟e̟e̟: T̟h̟e̟ S̟p̟l̟i̟t̟-S̟e̟c̟o̟n̟d̟ S̟n̟a̟p̟
    Death is a tree in the suburbs,
    and I, a tired child, am listening-
    clamoring and ascending it,
    falling one last time for it.
    I climb, and I climb,
    going up, and up, and up,
    clutching the timbered boughs so tightly
    they etch imprints into my palms.
    I watch the final stage of the sunrise
    through decaying orange leaves
    and empty bird's nests,
    a hundred feet up or more.
    I watch the sky bleed its colors,
    turning into familiar, beautiful cerulean.
    I hear the birds begin their chirping,
    closer and sharper than from land.
    I wonder if they are speaking to me.
    I wonder if they are confused,
    intrigued, unconcerned.
    I observe the morning dew drops dancing
    on my wild wooden throne,
    forming like gems on my face
    and on the green grass below.
    One more breath, and the vertigo begins.
    I inhale again and feel myself
    smile as I sway, close my eyes
    and relax...
    then one more long exhale
    as the tree branch holding me
    abruptly snaps.

    It allows me to fall so rapidly,
    before my brain can rush to meet it-
    a ragdoll body flying downwards
    out of the sunlight,
    landing with a rigid crash
    deep into the immense shade of fate-
    with no one to watch it go but the birds,
    the trees, hidden insects, the sky,
    and the eye of the rising sun.
    It is a most cathartic drop for all.
    ©in_fragments

  • robyyy 10w

    -;; Curse of their own wickedness. A vicious love.

    —Do you know how villains love?
    They restrain themselves.
    They try to stop loving deeper,
    for it will only hurt their lover.

    "Do you know how much I love you?"

    "That is the only thing
    that keeps me from being human."

    But evil are strong and tenacious,
    that their principles always come
    before love.

    —Even villains and sinful beings
    desired to live in a peaceful world.
    Having you in times of darkness,
    with them dying in a natural process.
    But because of their ignoble curses,
    they can't die peacefully with you in pieces.

    —Trust me, a villain's love is more
    beautiful than a heroine's passion.
    But they are certainly sad and cruel.
    A hero will choose you over the world,
    but a villain would kill the world for you.

    —It is then, the villain's curse,
    a vicious love their heart burst.
    They need to keep their heart cold,
    because monsters only favors the bold.
    —They cannot love, even if they feel it.
    They have to kill it before it kills them.
    They cannot have their own happiness.
    That is the curse of their own wickedness.

    / villains do love, but they don't deserve it /

    #poem #narrative #love #wod #miraquill #writersnetwork @miraquill @writersnetwork @readwriteunite

    ;;– A desolate and forlorn definition of love

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    Vicious Love

    ©robyyy

  • joey_lee 11w

    They

    They said they came to comfort me
    They said they came in peace.
    They said they came to show me the way
    In this, my hour of need.
    They spoke of wonders never seen
    As though they've viewed inside my dreams.
    They spoke of light and love and joy
    They told me to redeem.
    But I could see their wicked ways,
    Their rotting flesh from maggot graves.
    And I could see their evil eyes,
    Burning hot for my demise.
    And I could smell it in the air,
    that putrid scent, that rotten stench
    Of sulfur, sweat and certain death
    And underlying tones of a latrines trench.
    But they assured, it was nothing more,
    Than hatred trapped inside my heart.
    The evil that's caused my bitter health,
    And lost me all my unearned wealth.
    It was me who locked me in this hole,
    And let the anger rule my soul.
    And only now can I let go,
    Feel at peace, and regain control.
    But the ease I felt was quickly gone
    When I heard their whispers carry on.
    The master surely wants this one,
    The echoes bounce and carry on.
    The echoes bounce inside my head
    And fill my being full of dread
    I pull the covers, made of led
    To shield me from this demon's pledge.
    The demon's pledge? Inside my head?
    They just showed up and made their bread.
    If not for me, then you'd be dead,
    The demon said within my head.
    Free me from this vicious war
    I begged the demon through the door.
    With my body laying on the floor,
    He quotes the Raven, "never more".
    ©joey_lee

  • away_with_words 29w

    @writersnetwork @miraquill @love_whispererr @tomorrow_is_amazing @writerstolli #pod #edgarallenpoe #curse #narrative #ceesreposts



    "...Alas, the wiser choice did seem
    like foreign words I could not read
    a weaker foe to curiosity.
    Thus on the door, my knocks numbered three.

    On portal’s edge, the wait did seem
    a lifetime spent, eternity.
    Heard racing heart, mistakening
    its pounding pulse for echoed feet..."

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    The Twisted Text

    On these pages: a story writ.
    Not lines of love, near opposite.
    With wicked words, bursting seams.
    and pictures ripped from horror scenes.

    This transcript: tallied tragedy
    seemed clear, at first, of trickery
    such that I said, with full belief.

    “I simply bought a book,
    simply bought a simple book...
    bought a simple book this early morn.”

    Nary a choice did I resent
    more than my steps up staircase bent.

    Had I known what fate was in store,
    I would’ve stopped short of the door
    and listened to my heart’s retort
    turn my back to oaken boards;
    neglect to knock, proceed no more.

    Alas, the wiser choice did seem
    like foreign words I could not read
    a weaker foe to curiosity.
    Thus on the door, my knocks numbered three.

    On portal’s edge, the wait did seem
    a lifetime spent, eternity.
    Heard racing heart, mistakening
    its pounding pulse for echoed feet.

    A lock’s release, my wait was for;
    an unlatched, oaken, ornate door.
    As portal opened to the store,
    of echoed feet, I thought no more.

    Creaking hinges, a’rust with age
    made way for shopkeep’s leathered face.
    His cobwebbed volumes filled the space
    and gave the air a smell and taste.

    My steps were slow; I didn’t know
    what book, which nook, my search was for.
    So I walked the aisles, for a while.

    ‘Till a hidden book stood out
    A hidden nook stood out
    A hidden book’s nook stood out.

    Into that nook, up to that book
    my outstretched arms raised hands that shook.

    But now I see that I was blind
    to evil glints in shop-keep’s eye,
    and how my steps had crossed the line,
    but like a fool who pays no mind,
    I gripped book’s spine, as chill gripped mine.

    Alas, Where once I felt so free
    this “simple” book imprisoned me!
    Looking back, it’s plain to see:
    Text locked the door, and tossed the keys.

    On portal’s edge, I sat a spell,
    For front my eyes, world turned to Hell.
    Clocktower bells rang out death knells,
    Mixed metaphor with sulphured smells.

    A lock released, an op’ning door;
    Followed by sounds I can’t ignore
    As I walked home amid the storm,
    of echoed feet, I thought once more.

    What harkened there, shadowed so?
    It made no noise; I didn’t know.
    and so my steps fell soft as snow,
    heard silence then, and nothing more.

    Was it the shopkeep, hidden there?
    In darkness deep, ‘thought saw his glare
    and so I turned, searching, scared.

    Nought, I saw in darkness there
    Nought, eyes spied, no shadows spared.
    Nought, my cry left my fear bared:

    “I face you now, as friend or foe!
    Why you hide yours, I do not know.”

    So still, the shadow stayed his frame..
    as if playing a hidden game.
    His outline froze, stuck; seeming strange,
    Besot, I sought the shadow’s name!
    but to my ears, came only rain.

    Alas, light passed, lit up the space
    where I expected a strange face,
    but to my shock, the revealed place
    held only water, reflecting gaze.

    On puddle’s edge, I searched the grass,
    still found just water, liquid glass
    Just as I thought, “This fog won’t pass,”
    my clouded mind came clear at last.

    A calming breeze cleared my mind’s haze.
    To self, I said, “If blindly brave…
    I’d sell tomorrow to yesterday;
    risk retrospect of future fate.”

    Thus, I thought a tale would end,
    The book, or life, I can’t portend.
    Post-curse, I’m worse for wear, my friend!
    Now words alone don’t serve to mend.

    I turned a page into the book,
    and as before, my hands, they shook,
    The leaves were blank! Was I mistook?

    No words were writ, the pages, bare.
    No words to read, no lines to share.
    No words to see, then one appeared!

    A balked belief, before my eyes:
    that ghost-writ word was leading lines!

    And so I read, still scanning script
    ‘scarce skipping stanzas, none I missed.
    I turned more pages, teeth a’grit…
    Falt’ring, failing to feel my fits;
    I couldn’t stop; cease reading it

    Alas, time passed, still keeping speed
    words filled white pages, enrapt I read
    How does this work? What’s this all mean?
    Why was the cursive cursing me?

    On pages’ end, the words did seem
    a lifetime writ, for all to read
    Right from the start, text taunted me
    divined a doom, a destiny

    Its pox perceived, print paper flat.
    I begged the book to take it back
    “Who’s words were those? Who’s fate is that?
    Who’s life and death, in white and black?”

    Daunted, I delved so desperately
    for I felt my future had past, you see
    Living my life so longingly
    fearing fate’s folly, unfortunately.

    As I read the book, I took
    my final form, ‘spite balance shook;
    lapsed living lies; won’t die a crook!

    I blinked, unlinked, to weaker chain
    I shrinked, to think, of lesser gains
    I winked, on brinks, but not insane

    So now, my friend, I’ll pen some prose;
    dream up new lines; make up new words.

    Where once I thought that what was writ,
    the rise and fall, all of it
    could not be altered, not one bit;
    as if in stone, the letters sit;
    lines laying law, commanding it!

    But now I face what fate comes forth;
    leave letters forming words with worth.
    My written rhymes give gallant girth;
    they sing a ballad; but say one verse.

    I put down past, but faced it first
    in breaking down, I found what works
    I fixed my fate, and shed the curse,
    Better for me but, for you, much worse!

    The book, this poem share a name.
    Perchance that fact would make it plain
    When written words hide horrid hex
    You cannot flee, for you are next!
    ©away_with_words

  • robyyy 31w

    Since time immemorial,
    Flowers bloomed in the tomb of burial
    Scents of Lavender that kindled tranquility,
    Petals of Ivy that embodied vitality

    The night was cold and dark,
    And the crows were lost in skylark
    Yet curious youth wandered in necropolis,
    Unearthing the hidden souvenirs of oasis

    For in sunlight he would splash the florets,
    And in moonbeam he would furbish the crests
    He took the blossoms with delicate care,
    Like a sleeping ruby—fragile and bare

    After moments of prominent fosters,
    The petals grew into a garden of flowers
    A Forsythia of excitement ricochet the graves,
    An Edelweiss of devotion amplified the caves

    The young man flourished together with his garden,
    He beguiled himself to the pearls of wisdom in Eden
    While he acquired the venerable emblem of a lifetime,
    His garden of jewels was slowly withering in prime

    Shadow of memoirs materialize before his eyes,
    A glimpse of emotions echoed through his cries
    The phantoms emerged and aroused the evening flower,
    Singing a death sonata to mesmerize their temper

    The spirits whispered and their octaves resonated,
    A voice of absquatulate farewell poignantly stated:
    'Do not cry young man, oh do not weep
    Remember the memories when you fall asleep'

    @miraquill @writersnetwork #poem #narrative #writersnetwork

    (Had been a long time since I quilled my ink and heaved my words. Hope u like it)

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    Alluded Memories

    ©robyyy

  • guru22 32w

    I tried to write something that quite brings out the emotions of a girl who faces trauma, whether from friends or family.... Just a humble attempt..
    Let me know what do you think!!
    #narrative #cry #silent

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    Her Silent Cry

    The day is about to end,
    As lights start to dissolve,
    Something doesn't seem right,
    Nature had some mystery to solve...

    In all darkness, a small dim light was seen,
    With a silhouette of someone,
    She was busy doing something,
    It definitely seemed fun...

    She wiped off the sweat,
    From her already tensed forehead,
    As she whisked the fluffy batter,
    She was making some kind of a bread...

    She gracefully poured the batter,
    As she placed the tin in the oven,
    Something seemed to worry her,
    Some stories left to be woven...

    Slowly the batter started to inflate,
    The aroma filled the entire room,
    She doesn't seem to be happy,
    As she cleans the kitchen with the broom...

    Some thoughts come into her mind,
    As the crust starts turning golden brown,
    She thinks of her fallen relationship,
    She walks weakly as she starts to frown...

    The oven makes the sound of completion,
    As tears start rolling down,
    She wipes them, and tries to keep a smile,
    As she takes out the tastiest cake of the town...

    She starts decorating the cake,
    As she thinks of her friends,
    Who came to her as lucrative pathways,
    But eventually lead her astray, only towards dead ends...

    That doesn't mean she messed up her cake,
    She decorated it with all the care and love,
    It was not looking ordinary,
    It seemed like a blessing from above...

    She finished it with passion,
    As she had thoughts of her mental health,
    She had tried to convey it to two of her gems,
    Whom she considered her only wealth...

    She lifts the cake and pops it in the fridge,
    As she messages someone "Happy Birthday",
    No one tried to find out the face behind the phone,
    She was not a ball of wool to happily play...

    She went to her desk,
    As she checks her phone,
    Seeing pictures of her friends,
    She realised, she needs to graduate alone...

    She still texts people with a fake joy,
    She cannot stop her tears,
    She wants to reach out and embrace,
    She wants someone permanent, she still has her fears...

    She always makes people smile,
    As she is a walking fairy,
    People get away with a simple thankyou,
    No one tries to read her diary...

    She couldn't stop crying,
    As nothing she did that could ever go wrong,
    She had a strong sense of depression,
    That hasn't left her since long...

    She is frightened by a suprise video call,
    As she rushes to wash her face,
    She is back with her fake smile,
    She entered the call with her Godly grace...

    She cuts the call,
    As people talk in themselves,
    She rushes to the kitchen,
    To stack the utensils onto the shelves...

    In all the sadness, finally sleep gets over her,
    As her eyelids feel heavy,
    Her cheeks are still stained with some flour dust and her tears,
    As the stress gives her fatigue as a levy...

    She falls on her bed,
    As she recalls all the happy moments,
    Her eyes start to close,
    As all the trauma leaves her in torments...

    In that silence of the night,
    I could still hear a sound,
    With nothing to give her the comfort,
    She weeps in her dream like ground...

    The next morning,
    She again wakes up as usual,
    With her free spirited attitude,
    For me, this was really unique and unusual...

    She can't talk about her state,
    But she wants to give it a try,
    Even the nature wants to listen to her,
    All people notice extravagant smile, leaving behind Her Silent Cry...
    ©guru22

  • guru22 32w

    Very experimental concept.... Didn't know if it came out well... Please let me know what do you think!!
    #thoughts #toxic #narrative

    Read More

    Toxic Thought

    The moon is covered by blanket of the big dark cloud,
    The citylights slowly started to decrease,
    The nocturnal sounds were quite loud,
    And the household noises had started to cease...

    I was having a subtle sense of happiness,
    As I just finished having my handmade chicken curry,
    There was no signs of sadness,
    Nothing was there to worry...

    There was still sometime to hit the midnight hour,
    As I bid goodnight to my plants,
    I had to submit an assignment about the college's virtual tour,
    It was a electronic factory based in France...

    I happily wrote the assignment,
    As I listened to my favourite music,
    There was a sense of action and commitment,
    I still was far from being work-sick...

    The assignment lasted me more than twelve,
    As I submitted it on time with happiness and pride,
    Some strange things had started to shelve,
    Things that I would otherwise hide...

    My sleep had rather gone,
    So I took to watch some random tv show,
    It was night, and I was alone,
    Thoughts started to come in very slow...

    Soon, the clock struck one,
    As my mind hit me with my past experience,
    The program was no longer fun,
    As I judged myself to be a nonsense...

    I started to judge myself,
    My anxiety started to rise,
    The show was still on, my phone placed on the shelf,
    No books, or music could suffice.....

    I immediately took to my virtual world,
    To find someone to reach out,
    Finding no one appropriate, my mind swirled,
    I started to view my favourite celebrity pout...

    Seeing other virtual people succeed,
    Jealousy added fuel to the fire,
    I started my second wrong deed,
    Judging my best friend as a liar...

    The clock struck two,
    As lust grew inside me,
    I started lurking around some girls too,
    Everything was assumed to be nonconsensual and free...

    My conscience had taken a beating,
    As I had gone haywire,
    Anxiety, Lust Jealousy, followed by thoughts of cheating,
    My mind was running around like a burning tyre...

    The clock struck three,
    As dejection kicked in,
    I had to keep my mind in control, instead I let it free,
    Sleep deprived, it started to spin...

    Tears started rolling down,
    With no actual valid reason in mind,
    I scrolled down the news feed with a frown,
    Definitely sleep was something that I needed to find...

    Finally my mind lost its patience,
    As it was all over the phone,
    It had destroyed every relation, crossed every fence,
    It finally thought of sleeping, realising how gruesome it had grown...

    The next morning, I woke up,
    With agitation for no reason,
    My plants smiled, as they were ready for their usual water cup,
    All my mind giving me the ultimate treason...

    I took some time to myself,
    As I sip my usual tea,
    Reviewing the thoughts that polluted my mind's shelf,
    Not letting them to ruin me...

    Everything had one solution,
    I should have slept,
    Failing to do this action,
    Uselessly I wept...

    I made a pact then,
    To sleep before midnight,
    My mind would not ask questions as Why? What? And When?
    I could easily avoid this unnecessary fight...

    Realising this small thing,
    It was truly a lesson taught,
    My face was shining bling,
    As my mind was devoid of any Toxic Thought...
    ©guru22

  • guru22 33w

    Tried writing another narrative poetry in the form of a ballad...
    Let me know what do you think..
    #ballad #narrative

    Read More

    A Circus called LIFE

    It was the time for sunset,
    And the sky was clear,
    The full moon was emerging from the horizon,
    It shined gracefully, without any fear...

    I was walking down the busy streets,
    After my usual hustle,
    With a fatigued mind and an injured ankle,
    I moved on with a limping muscle...

    On reaching home,
    I felt the necessity of a break,
    But realising my situation,
    I sat down, as no leave I could take...

    I ran through the newspaper,
    As a restless boy,
    I found an advertisement,
    Which gave me a subtle joy...

    The advertisement was about a circus,
    Giving me a show for an hour,
    It read, "Come and Enjoy with Us,
    Forget All the memories that are sour"...

    I started to feel the excitement,
    The child would get on seeing the icecream,
    I didn't have to take any leave,
    The fact made my face gleam...

    I rushed to my phone,
    That I threw on the bed in despair,
    Booked the ticket for Friday,
    As I casually played with my hair...

    Every day which followed,
    It felt like a year passing by,
    I couldn't stop my excitement,
    Howsoever hard I try...

    Finally came Friday,
    Brought with it a happiness breeze,
    Though I was loaded with tasks in the office,
    I finished them with ease...

    Completing my work,
    I rushed to the venue,
    It was a valley surrounded by mountains,
    On my hands I could feel the cool drops of dew...

    The place was strange and mystical,
    As there was no one at the entrance,
    I entered there to be welcomed by a dwarf,
    The colurs made me experience trance...

    He took me to a giant area,
    Showed me a comfortable seat,
    There was no one as far as I could see,
    I felt he was but a cheat...

    He told me with confidence,
    To sit with comfort,
    "We will do the show for you,
    No need for your mind to distort"...

    The dwarf went inside,
    Brought his oversized horn,
    He blowed it but the sound was weird,
    It was Cry of a child newly born..

    Then entered the ringmaster,
    In all his smartness,
    He took out a stick and turned it into a flower,
    I burst out in happiness...

    As I predicted, he started with magic,
    Bringing pigeons out of thin air,
    He took out his long hat,
    Vanishing the cute white hare...

    He called a joker who appeared from behind,
    I got scared as it was sudden,
    He brought the magician's hat, and told me,
    "Drop all your so called burden"...

    I laughed at his joke,
    As he took the hat from me,
    The magician took his wand and tapped the hat thrice,
    And appeared there, my dream trophy...

    With every three taps,
    He brought everything I ever dreamt about,
    From cars to iPhones,
    The magic was mysterious enough to make me doubt...

    As he saw the doubt in my eyes,
    He told me to touch them,
    I touched them and they vanished,
    He said, "Fulfill them yourself, you're indeed a gem"...

    Sadness had gone by this time,
    And there prevailed happiness,
    I couldn't sit on my place,
    Because of the excitement and eagerness...

    The magic show ended,
    As the ringmaster bowed with grace,
    He called the jokers with the animals,
    I no longer had a grumpy face...

    The jokers enacted every scene,
    From my bag of memories,
    The animals were none but the one which I feared,
    Making me tensed and freeze...

    The dancers then came,
    Dancing to my favourite tunes,
    The illusioner showed me different places,
    From the deep dark ocean, to the dry sand dunes...

    As they ended their show,
    The ringmaster escorted me to a place,
    I was very much excited,
    He said, "This place might change the expression on your face"...

    The place read, "Hall of Mirrors"
    Happily I entered inside,
    Seeing my reflections everywhere,
    There was nowhere for me to hide...

    I noticed something different,
    The mirrors could show everything,
    From past experiences to future mysteries,
    I was excited enough to say nothing...

    Every mirror showed me my different faces,
    With my enemies and best friends,
    Surprised and astonished,
    The place had no end...

    The mirrors showed me,
    My life's timeline,
    My mistakes and my bad behaviours,
    Brought a chill down my spine...

    I got frightened,
    As I rushed back to the hall,
    The sight I saw there,
    Was enough to faint and fall...

    Every joker, every animal, every dancer,
    Started looking like me,
    Be it my childhood face, or my adult grace,
    It was like I was cloned for free...

    One person did not change though,
    It was the ringmaster,
    I was in utter shock,
    So I approached him faster...

    In my confused state,
    I asked him whether this was a prank,
    He smiled at me,
    Leaving my question unanswered and blank...

    I felt terrified and wanted to leave,
    To my astonishment, there was no exit,
    Baffled and bewildered,
    I was feeling fear in every bit...

    The ringmaster started glowing,
    His smile became stronger,
    I saw every version of me merging onto him,
    My Fear growing bigger...

    He then looked at me,
    And said with a smile,
    "This is your circus, and I am your ringmaster,
    You cannot run from here, even a metre or a mile"...

    "Every dream of yours,
    Is not a product of magic,
    It requires hardwork and dedication,
    Enough to make you feel tragic"...

    "Every past incident of yours,
    Is like a mirror hall,
    It will always keep you grounded,
    Even in your greatest success or your greatest fall"...

    "Believe in yourself,
    As you perform in this Circus called LIFE,
    Believe in me,
    And you will easily face this strife"...

    He lifted me up in the air,
    As a fright started to creep in my head,
    He started glowing brighter than the sun,
    "Go", and I fall from my bed...

    It took me some time,
    To come back to my sense,
    He made me realise,
    All I lamented about is absolute nonsense...

    I rushed to the newspaper,
    But found nothing,
    It was but his play,
    To make me realise everything...

    I immediately got ready for work,
    As I cut veggies with a knife,
    I walked towards my office, but with a smile,
    As all I was a joker, in my Circus Called Life...
    ©guru22

  • in_fragments 35w

    "Young, failed artist,
    caught in the storm,
    fated to walk through
    antique store doors-
    nothing else behind your eyes
    but distortions that arise, a life
    you tried to hide,
    but history has its claws in you now,
    as you scan the shelves
    holding CD's and cassettes,
    VHS tapes, old television sets,
    you remember when these things
    were new- became so old so suddenly
    you didn't even notice the change,
    like what happened
    to your body and brain.
    So old, so fast, and then it's dead
    if no one finds it valuable instead;
    you keep walking to find
    an authentic World War II helmet,
    too heavy to hold in your hands;
    imagine how heavy they were
    on soldier's heads;
    you wonder how it survived,
    if the soldier did as well-
    all the nightmares he could tell
    if fate decided to let him...

    You find an old book from 1925-
    published poems written
    by ordinary citizens like you,
    never to find fame like you,
    still engaged with the craft like you-
    a simple, pithy paragraph
    from a little girl on her goldfish,
    a 40-year-old housewife
    lamenting her age without grace
    on a water stained page,
    oh how ideals have shifted since!
    She never was too old to love,
    the times just tried to tell her that...

    You find a section of paintings,
    sketches and other art,
    and you think of your own;
    that photography and wonky prose
    the world doesn't want,
    but you can still pass it on. You
    are in control of your thoughts,
    your creativity,
    no matter the mistakes
    the old narratives have made;
    life is a series of breaking cycles,
    creating new ones,
    expanding ancient ideas
    to fit the modern world.
    We pass the torch
    beyond antique store doors;
    we must never forget the past-
    and we can also never relive it,
    except through the artifacts
    housed on wooden shelves,
    and the stories behind them
    running through our heads..."
    ©in_fragments

    ~~~~
    Keep honing your art, even if you think no one will want to see it. It's the action itself, not the outcome, that matters most to a creative heart. Whether it's passed on or not, we still have something to say. We will say it no matter what.
    Totally wrote this because I miss going to antique stores, hope I can go to one again soon and they've been ok through the pandemic ��
    #pod #narrative #poem @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Young Artist,
    Antique Store Doors


    We pass the torch
    beyond antique store doors...
    ©in_fragments

  • in_fragments 35w

    It's okay to get angry. It's okay to scream. Releasing it is the healthiest thing you can do. Don't push it back.
    #pod #narrative #poem #women #mythology #trauma #mentalhealth #mentalillness #ptsd #anger #selfcare @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

    Read More

    Pt. 3: Me, The Banshee

    Me, the banshee,
    I scream with resiliency,
    no longer eating my teeth
    and dying silently!
    I express myself
    for the children of the day,
    the little ones living below the murk,
    suffocated by all the anger,
    the sadness and hatred-
    buried pearls of light
    underneath miles and miles of mud;
    I scream for them,
    that they may find
    their way home again-
    Me, the banshee,
    longing to be happy and free
    but stuck in this dead forest,
    not allowed to wander
    anywhere else;
    to the other side of the coin-
    to the other side of your mind.

    Please be not afraid of me.
    I guard the little ones
    from secrets they cannot keep,
    the darkest knowledge
    under my control,
    but at a cost bigger than life itself;
    I have no sense of innocence,
    no childlike wonder,
    those things were never meant for me.
    Living amongst neverending
    wintry death,
    yet I myself cannot die until you do.
    Me, the banshee, I am you-
    all that you're terrorized by,
    all that you fight to forget.
    You have everything you need
    inside a scream,
    but are too scared to hear
    the messages between them.

    Don't be afraid of the banshee
    inside you, I carry my own wisdom
    like the fairies do, in their gardens
    and the monsters in my forest,
    we all exist for a reason;
    the children are you,
    the fairies and monsters
    and creatures are you,
    coming out to play in ways
    you've forgotten, having hidden
    them away for so long-
    so I scream, for if I didn't,
    how would you know
    anyone else was here?
    I've been waiting for you to find me
    the entire time.

    I'll help you build
    what the children cannot have,
    what you must gently teach them
    once you know it- the truth.
    You will remember soon,
    building up mental fortitude;
    you might not see it,
    but I sense you getting closer
    every day.
    You are stronger because you have me,
    the banshee. Screaming is power,
    screaming is sovereignty,
    screaming is your body
    knowing before the knowing-
    so let yourself begin to scream,
    and don't be afraid
    of the all voices in between.
    ©in_fragments

  • in_fragments 35w

    "I wander into a childhood dream,
    a land of fairies and pixies,
    fireflies and their angel friends.
    I fall through the earth
    and land amidst glistening daylight,
    flourishing gardens in the clouds,
    mermaids soaking in deep blue rivers,
    cooling their limbs under waterfalls
    that slip into eternity.
    The trees smile to greet me
    and shake my hand,
    rather than sneer and hiss as I walk.
    The atmosphere is heavy
    with pulsing colored orbs,
    like rainbow snowflakes suspended
    and moving upwards; the fairies,
    all around me,
    playing with my hair,
    taking interest in my wingless skin.
    They fly me over the land
    with a million little flutters,
    exploring with me this wondrous world,
    one I once had access to
    but locked it away so long ago
    I had forgotten it was there.

    We run along
    through fields of diamonds,
    and when hungry, catch the jewels
    as they fall down from the trees-
    rewarded with precious
    rubellite raspberries,
    abundant jasper cherries,
    and brilliant sunstone apples to eat.
    Pure water from the sparkling creeks
    quenches centuries of thirst,
    with its heavenly taste
    and immaculate, unpolluted flows;
    a splendid woodland feast indeed,
    with a seat reserved for me;
    how did it take me so long
    to find this place, this secret hideaway
    that was always here?
    The creatures ask no questions,
    the creatures give no cares
    as they spend their days
    in innocent play; they need know
    nothing else, save for
    their games and gems and
    striking naivety.

    This part of the universe
    is perfection, but I
    am not allowed to stay for long-
    possessing too many demons
    I don't know the meaning of;
    wishing I could stay forever,
    but I have limitless beasts to conquer.

    The azure sky transforms
    into orange, red, then black
    as night arrives, and it is time to go,
    to fall again 
    through the stars,
    back into darkness and danger.
    I bid my fairies sweet farewell,
    and they tell me I can
    come back whenever I want,
    if I am willing
    to first crawl through
    the banshee's forest of ghosts
    and other wormy, monstrous things.
    It's the only way in or out, they say,
    and they will not join me on my way-
    so I fall alone,
    through the interims of my thoughts,
    past the barriers of my identities-
    and I find myself again
    at the edge of a dirt road
    slowly seeping back into reality,
    the sounds of banshee screams and
    fluttering fairy wings far behind me-
    neither of them gone, all simply
    gone quiet."
    ©in_fragments

    ~~~~
    If I can wander in, does that mean that they can wander out?
    #pod #narrative #poem #fantasy #dream #fairies #fantasy #trauma #mentalhealth #selfcare @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Pt. 2: The Fairy Gardens

    The atmosphere is heavy
    with pulsing colored orbs,
    like rainbow snowflakes suspended
    and moving upwards; the fairies,
    all around me...
    ©in_fragments

  • in_fragments 35w

    "The darkness coos as I slither through
    on my way to nowhere.
    I come upon a blackened forest,
    where the giant trees
    like shadow creatures loom over me,
    watching fractured stars
    glimmer and burn away,
    split up betwixt the grotesque branches
    that stir up old fears in my heart
    as they reach for me
    with their colossal bony fingers,
    carried closer by the complicit wind
    and collusive nature of the air.
    A blood-curdling sound
    like a banshee's scream
    rides along atingled winds as I
    stand paralyzed,
    wishing in my horror I could unexist,
    standing in the middle of nothing
    longing to be a time machine
    or a guillotine, anything to kill me,
    or to quell the inquietude
    that haunts my every unkept thought.

    The moon alone watches
    as the earth releases snakes and insects
    at my feet, nipping at me,
    biting my ankles and sliding
    up my thighs,
    trying to hold me back
    by pushing me out of my own body;
    I keep moving. I toss them off of me
    like so many men's hands,
    toss them across the grass,
    striking them on trees and smearing
    squashed viscera into my pores
    as I keep moving-
    I find a long, fast stream
    of frenzied, freezing water
    that I prepare to swim across
    to pass forward to the other side.
    Most souls would stop here,
    frightened by the ice, terrified
    of the currents
    that very much hold death in waiting amongst the tides,
    but I keep moving.
    Banshee screams
    from deep in the forest reach
    as the water thrashes and floods me,
    knocks me to my feet
    as I hit my face on the rocks.
    The currents keep me in place
    as I tread water, exhausted,
    my skin begs to stop and
    float away with the drift-
    through chattering teeth,
    a bleeding brain below zero,
    and bitter, numbing bones,
    I keep moving.
    Almost on the edge, just wanting
    the pain and fear to end,
    I use the very last of my resolve-
    unafraid as the banshee,
    screaming with all my might
    to beach myself onto the sand
    like a sick animal no one followed,
    but still- I feel the land
    forming between my toes
    and know that I am closer to home.

    As I journey on I attempt friendships
    with the faces in the trees,
    asking questions to the insects,
    trying to figure out just who they are,
    I keep walking in the dark,
    remaining friendly with the night,
    the banshee's screams no longer
    scaring me; now my audible North Star.
    Eventually I come upon
    a golden glint in the ground,
    sudden light cutting through the black
    and I dig it up with my hands to reveal
    a portal to somewhere, anywhere else-
    and being so strained
    from the infinite night,
    being so tired, with no end in sight,
    with my broken fight-or-flight
    and adrenaline spikes,
    I smile and sigh
    as I fall through the light,
    down the rabbit hole into
    a different kind of life..."
    ©in_fragments

    ~~~~
    Don't hate on snakes and insects ok guys, they're good for metaphors in poetry but in real life they're big, confused survivors just like us. I intend to befriend more of them. Thanks for listening to my PSA���� Take care of your wildlife, they are more than the symbols we attribute to them.
    #pod #narrative #poem #forest #darkness #life #mentalillness @mirakee @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Pt. 1: The Blackened Forest

    The darkness coos as I slither through
    on my way to nowhere.
    I come upon a blackened forest,
    where the giant trees
    like shadow creatures loom over me...
    ©in_fragments

  • _sahista_ 38w

    Mistress Life

    I like black a little too much,
    It always get the right attention which I crave.
    The time is correct,
    He will be home by 8:00.
    I wore the perfect outfit which hugs my curve and shows a little cleavage,
    I am his mistress,
    And pleasuring him is my work.
    He saved me few years back from some goons,
    Who tried to rape me in the alley.
    He taught me so many things and introduce me to the new life style,
    Just only on one condition that I should obey his demand.
    He has a wife and two children's,
    Still he wants more and for that I am the perfect whore.
    That night he saved me, provided me a home, food and all the comforts which was Missing from my life,
    Only to trap my body and mark my soul.

    In a way I realised all men are same...
    Some snatched your dignity, some woo you, some demand your pussy and some claim it but they want some thing in exchange nothing is for free,
    Welcome to my life,
    I am Kim,
    The mistress of the well known Mafia Don...
    ©_sahista_

  • aleesa 40w

    The doctor walked in and his uneasy face made it clear that whatever he has to tell is not going to be good at all. Her blue eyes start bleeding the delicate dreams and fragmented hopes all at once. I clench her hand tighter to let her know that nothing will happen to her. She gives me a defeated look and an unsatisfied nod.

    "I'm extremely sorry. It's adenocarcinoma - stage 4", the doctor tells with helplessness in his eyes. I spend some more time in his clinic discussing any possible treatment. I feel my heart yelling for an escape when doctor tells me that her life won't last more than a year.

    Her eyes used to carry a billion dreams, love for me and liveliness. Sometimes while stargazing I'd sense the whole of universe packed in two little glinting diamonds but right now all I see in her eyes are destructing stars too tired of the dreams they carry. "It's going to be alright, love." I wisper to her not being sure whether I'm consoling her or myself. I hold her close to my chest and plant a small kiss on her forehead as I feel her sobs and cries against my chest. "I knew it's too good to be true", she tells me looking into my eyes and I can't help but cry with her.

    We move into the car and drive back to home. I feel tears trickling down my cheeks as I witness the lively city life contrasting with her dying face. She looks at me, wipes my tears and smiles. The same smile I fell for when I first saw her, the same smile when a month back I slipped the engagement ring through her finger as my heart carried a million promises of an eternal journey. Who knew all this happiness won't last for long and would be nothing but another short lived infinity. We reach home and suddenly I find myself fighting the thought that it won't be a home after she's gone.

    I look at her and there's a weird serenity over her face, just like the calm air after a wrecking storm. We go inside and she changes to my sweatshirt and sniffs it reminding me a hundredth time that it's her favourite perfume." Are you okay?" I ask her.

    "We can't always be scared of storm, which is miles away from us and that too with subtle uncertainty. Sometimes all we can do is stand in the storm with our head high, and either see our own destruction or witness ourselves become a storm but we can't mourn like this", She tells me with chaos,peace and tears in her eyes. I feel tranquility replacing chaos somewhere deep within me.

    She puts on our favourite record and drags me to the balcony. A zillion stars shine over us and she asks me whether people really turn into stars once they die. I smile at her and tell her that people never die to turn into something mortal again,they diffuse their lifeless fragments in morning air, black soil, springing flowers, serene zephyr and dew drops so that death never knows how to turn them lifeless again. She returns the smile, content with my answer and places her head on my shoulder.

    "Then I guess 'forevers' and 'infinities' do exist." She whispers and lets out a sigh of relief.

    "Perhaps we aren't so short lived after all", I tell her and see those constellations fill her blue eyes again.

    •AleesaKhan || April 22' 21
    _________________________________
    @writersnetwork @mirakee #narrative (another lame attempt)

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    .

  • robyyy 45w

    Monday,
    We met in the divines of Basilica
    With your eyes in the form of Selena
    And your raven pitch-black hair
    Embodied the silks of a queen's lair

    Tuesday,
    We met again in the galleries of La Scala
    Your grace flaunts the soul of Bellini Opera
    Your body exhibits the masterpiece of Italia
    Your features resembled the beauty of Athena

    Wednesday,
    I avowed thy desires in the fortress of Alhambra
    My fervent nympholepsy to be your inamorata
    How I yearn to grasp the qualms of your dice
    How I crave to taste the flavors of your spice

    Thursday,
    Should you requite my impulse and fondness
    I shall mold your throne in the likes of an empress
    I shall fold your gown with delicate prudence
    I shall hold your heart with dazzling lucence

    Friday,
    We floated in the clouds of nine heavens
    Our joints glided in the streams of morgens
    You levitate in the euphoria of angel flight
    I drown in the ecstasy of blinding sight

    Saturday,
    Tempest of anger lashed our peaceful skyline
    A cloudburst of rage sparked in our alpine
    Fallacy and illusion befogged our judgment
    Conflict and dispute prevailed in our ambient

    Sunday,
    Your existence cease to a phantom of leaves
    A ghost of tomorrow vanished in grieves
    Just like how quick you came into my life
    Is how swift you left and cut me with knife

    #poem #ballad #narrative

    Read More

    A Week of Love

    ©robyyy

  • pranalishah 47w

    - Dear Favourite Author -

    Dear Favourite Author
    (whom I don’t know
    yet soulfully I’m aware),

    So... umm... Hi!
    So, I don’t know you in person,
    Don’t get me wrong
    and just hear me out...

    To be truthful,
    I’ve met you a million times
    I’ve heard you a trillion times
    I’ve related with you a zillion times...

    Through each word you narrated,
    Through each sentence that echoed,
    Through scenic emotions I’ve ever felt...

    Yours Truly,
    One of the many loving readers...

    ©pranalishah

  • devilfish 53w

    Your Angel Breath Reverberates

    Like coils serpentine as it boils through my blood
    Beating heart that I compose but words are not enough
    I need more than a Valentine
    To describe the empyrean shrine I hold candles too in nostalgic wavelengths
    Of my mind and your eyes intertwined
    I feel as if my heart stopped where I stood
    Resurrection of a third kind
    I'm revived
    Inclined to taste your skin
    And mesh it eagerly with mine
    Your my religion and I give to you
    The only thing I have
    My time
    I crush every obstacle
    To dust I crush
    These walls
    I make the dam fall because nothing can stand in the way of my watery emotions
    When they rush
    Lust interwoven with Love
    It's more than a touch
    It's words left unspoken
    As my heart bleeds open
    And it soars just like a dove
    My eyes are wide as I admire what you and I have become
    Time that's left undone
    ©devilfish