88 posts
  • say_me_krish 54w

    Long. The longest post I've ever written.

    | Unreal artists |

    Tellurians- the strangest mortals with sugar coated outsides and rotten insides. Just like pitcher plants and butcher knives, believing upon epithelial externals can bring in devastations, which has layered upon in the sediments since the time of our ancestors. While micoplasmas still go unrecognized being the smallest cells, it is always hard to contemplate why crooked minds do not hold the records of being the smallest living organisms on this vast globe which deems to have witnessed every emotion, every human, and mainly, every majority of any statement attached with an interrogation mark. The impulses transmitted by the largest cells of our body have failed to distinguish between whether the electrochemical messages they are interpreting to the mind holds diamond or coal, and a wise individual would madly want the almighty to give them this skill. Maybe then, the world would feel lighter enough of holding too much trash inside natural landfills, if you know what it meant. There's fire in the sun which is right upon the head in the noon, and there's a calm in the crescent moon which a mother sings lullabies of, in the night. And there exist many fireballs who pretend to be as cool as the moon, but the next juncture we place our hands on them with a faith of experiencing a chill as acetone in contact, blisters and burns show up as their real faces. What seemingly wasn't hot actually burnt a pile of beliefs, understandings, emotions and relationships, and the fireball is all set for its next pretence as the moon when dusk dawns; the white dress is neatly pressed to wear a few moments later, and it indeed is saddening to see another heart broken, and another pair of eyes shed pain. But we are humans, and we're meant to stand with time and not fly away with the winds betwixt the voyage.

    We humans are classified into two branches of the same tree, and the shocking aspect which the autumn leaves knew was that the two branches were going into different sails to explore opposite kind of things. One of them wants to discover how the seashore sands get restored in their original form despites being hit by those waves which carry hiraeth in their flows and flaws. In human terminologies, the dictionary can define one group of people as those who search of beauty in scars, the r e a l innocent ones who know nothing but love, the souls who haven't read the newspapers yesterday which had a quote saying, "Love is blind, and you aren't meant to fall. There's still a chance to open the darkness from your sights, if at all it makes a hindrance". The second branch currently needs more attention; it is the one which wants to be first and triumphant in the race of the research as for what intensity of a tempest can harm the other and save the self. The witty ones who seek perfection in the art of having to themselves in times of need and pushing to the lavapool when the other needs an aid. In pretty simple words, these are the f a k e people who read only the parts which speak of ruining and give an evil smile. It indeed is agreeable that not getting into treachery is wisdom, but when the one who wants to, wears a mask made of real skin which I turn was made by piercing somebody else's, what else can be done if not to believe?

    We are humans and belief naturally comes in the blood just like how verdures have blessed our mother nature, and it is as obvious as it is. But there's a fine line between limits and the sky, and we are always curious to know what's beside the border. The weather forecasting sirens warn of having excruciating consequences across the border due to enemies who resemble friends, the cyclones and winds are ready to blow the one who crosses the silk thread, and we somewhere tend to see success sagas everywhere. But the world isn't what it shows you to be. We hit the beehives with stones of mere contradictions that there's only honey inside the hexagon boxes without realizing that we're actually collapsing somebody else's abode, and they're the r e a l owners too. The world is holding chrysanthemums for our funeral and is waiting for the burial to shed some waters with glycerine coated upon the eyed, it is us who do not realize where toxicity comes from; and after it comes, we ourselves are pain-toxic.

    Mental magnification is accumulation of toxic feelings and emotions which increases from each stage of intimacy (now intimacy isn't physical here, things can happen from mind to mind or heart to heart) due to the first level person who started its spread with negligence, and the one who ends up being harmed is the one who is at the topmost level - the clever dumbs. The one who pretends is actually a thunderstorm who wants to hit some barricades and reservoirs, all it needs is some food, shelter and affection, and all it can present you back is dereliction, pain and more than serious smiles - the smile which stretches a mile but lacks original happiness for a while. It all basically starts from the start of the start, since a tree doesn't originate with a leaf, later branch, later the root and then the seed; since we aren't existing in a parallel universe. The beginnings are recognized with the bookmarks of first impressions, and it is quite limpid like mirror that not all sight interpretations are accurate. Some are precise. And precise visions aren't accurate; that's where the difference lies; be it decisions, or judgments, or faith, we're precise and not just perfect. Imperfections can always be to a certain extent but definitely not precisions - they just aren't the right picks at times. We feel that we breathe the air he exhales forgetting that we belong to the same categories by outsides, and we think that love is in the air and belief can be hit to the other by the wind; and it isn't as simple as it looks. Complexity is a simple thing, but simplicity involves complexities which are smaller than the crooked minds which was illustrated earlier. Heart acquires the space in an instant pace like an ace, and the mind plays of the culprit get in a foolish player to play chess with and give checkmates to.

    The problem with such toxic humans is that they're people who look chocolate and smell cocaine after a complete eat. It always feels like loving them is unconditionally unconditional, and mathematics can calculate this axiom just once and say, "That was easy, it's a silly contradiction". They're like the students in a normal classroom who are friends with the topper for a reason that notes and suggestions and help are available free of cost. They're like the oranges we never knew were sour inside when bought from the fruit vendor for a hundred rupees. Money isn't worth of anything except desires. Neither these people. Nor the ones who actually wait for their return. We accept what we think we deserve unknon of the fact that truth lies molested in the couch which was thrown away to trash a few days back. They're the diseases who enter into the mental stature without permission and ill symptoms, and the war starts with a slender in the back and ends by the time you remove the knife from there. Life feels so annoyed, humans feel so torturous, the world seems unbelievable, humanity seems to be dead. The only thing alive is that heart which took a wrong decision in haste, and still manages to pump blood despites being crumpled and thrown away into the deep woodlands. It is to be noted that a second check option has actually been disabled long ago, and the absence of a sense made all this hard mess.

    It actually takes time to recognize if a heartbreak hasn't happened, and recover if it has, but the amount definitely wouldn't be an infinity. Life was formed 4.6 billion years ago, and the neoteric wanted to specify the age, and if he wanted it to be specific, he actually is, and we aren't. It is just on how recognizing a facade becomes an art like a painter's grip in his gradients and how he manages to merge them with each stroke on his canvas. We still have time to change our perceptions, mindsets, mentalities, visions, and anything else which needs to undergo evolution. This evolution in the self can make resolutions firm and revolutions pretty good, since belief isn't a stereotype to break. If ever cheated by the toxic organisms, ignore, change (either them our our own selves), visualize; and if you're in a good grip, everything in a combination can be a good action with optimistic reactions. If cheating someone, bad perceptions are rotten fruits like ego is. Whether evolving the self and bringing some new faith or continuing the same to bring more sins on the fate on the forehead, is completely a choice. And it is always to be remembered that selected choices and adulterated hybrid variants come with a price. We must take some moments to believe someone, and also remember to have some shares of faith for the self too, for the self is a model in the top priority. Priorities decide our paths, either perfect or pessimistic. These are all life lessons which must actually be taken to the self, so that the calculations of probability for the future occurances turns out to be zero. A zero. A void. Which doesn't suck things inside, but the one which has nothing and wants nothing.

    After all, we are humans and change is allowed in everyone's space, isn't it?

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Nov 25, 2020

    @/eclipsed_sun Thanks for the prompt (write on how fake people are) ��
    @writersnetwork (58, 9) @sangfroid_soul @laus_deo @thewordplayer #skp_writes

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  • say_me_krish 55w

    | Blanket skies |

    A cardigan made with black dots placed
    intimate to each other is
    removed from upside and placed
    in a corner to wear next night,
    since momma wants to wash the stains
    of leftover detergent crystals
    reclined upon that cloth, which
    covered the whole earth for warmth;
    she's unaware that some stains stay, sadly.
    It seems like dusk has dusked
    over, it's a new daylight, the rooster whispered.
    Every day rebirths a new hope they say,
    let me see if I meet renaissance.

    Time's a pearl chain which broke out
    from my angry fist and ran behind the bed,
    and I must say that they indeed
    had a good pace to sprint
    into unseen corners. I was
    playing with a ball and it suddenly
    bounced high to the candyfloss
    skyline and shined as yellow as light,
    it liked being heated up like my mind
    and decided to stay right upon my head
    for some time, and to never come back
    for a lifetime; orbital love they say.
    'twas warm more than asked.

    My body, a withering flower felt ex-
    -hausted, and all it wanted was a site
    to rest, and fortunately, my
    whole place was a graveyard.
    Time popped so soon like a fine bubble
    my cousin blew that day.
    Blue blankets dipped in abendrot
    hues looked colourful at the
    first wash, but my mom wasn't happy.
    She said that the spectrum was like a
    magic potion, "and dipping in it can only hide,
    and not cleanse". I loved the
    blanket though, for ironies are what I'm
    affectionate of; realities end up hurting.

    So now she ate some cookies and had
    a cup of coffee which deemed of
    refreshments rather than hallucinations,
    gave that beautiful blanket a
    second wash, and the colours faded
    away like the whiteness of my diary.
    It was placed serenely to
    dry up into auroras,
    small detergent crystals which collided
    onto the blues decided to
    linger with a shimmer;
    and rainbows which emerged with
    -out rain dusked with me, again.

    Will I rebirth tomorrow?

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Nov 19, 2020

    I've dropped a short summary in the comments. Check it out too (if you needed :/)

    Inspired by @jeelpatel ��
    @writersnetwork #skp_writes #fadec (55, 9)

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  • say_me_krish 56w


    I wonder that Shakespeare's antique poetries are fit into the innocent voice of that pitiful munchkin who knows nothing but cramming those rhymed verses in the misty hope of some extra four marks to cross the borderlines and escape from his ferocious English teacher. I want to whisper in his ears that those verses whimper to be savoured like that Blueberry pie his mother made for his grandfather's 99th birthday out of sheer affection. Shakespeare's sitting contentedly at the corner of the bench because his sonnets quarelled that they would not be attending his funeral that day, and today, he feels he's a mother who planted mere existences called poesies which respire his air and amplify his voice. He isn't crying for not being understood this time, he is in halcyon by visiting his museums and journals in the larynx of that child. I feel like a nature poem.
    //A poet is a  "r u s t i c  d i a r y"  who births his majestic poetries through his womb of emotions in another//

    I saw a potter thrashing his child for breaking his pots, the sole source of his family's meal for the night, while playing cricket with his friends who knew nothing but having fun. Feelings and words which take solicitude and affection of years to construct gets destroyed by allegations and breakage of myriad emotions in a minute; I have felt it. I rather asked the potter to pick those broken fragments, make a mosaic and sell those for a penny or two, despites knowing that splinters don't find consummate fittings since their existence is based on being shattered and not getting fit to originality despite having a heart to. I feel short like a haiku.
    //A poet is a  "p o r c e l a i n  p o t"  who is broken yet joined without his knowledge to make stunning mosaics//

    My mother never used to slumber until her ears hearkened her favorite song, "Lag Jaa Gale". I always echoed her mind with an interrogation if she liked the composition for the strains which warmed the air, and her answer made me fall in love with poets. Her saccharine smile accompanied with words: "I love the song for the lyricist who found those eleven words which echo eleven million times in the heart; catharsis for the one who has another on the side, and disconsolation for the one who has shed autumns. He sets his own tunes, and he is proudly, a poet" were enough for me to hum some verses and have a peaceful sleep like Mr. John who sleeps happily, without stress overpowering his peace. I feel like a blithe rhyme now.
    //A poet is a  "m e l l i f l u o u s  b e r c e u s e"  who soothes with tunes and saddens with rhymes simultaneously//

    Sometimes, it makes me feel that stitches and needles are an inevitable part of everyone's life. Fall in love and then stitch her name to your heart, fall into woes and darn your lips to your cheeks to resemble the face of that girl in your street who smiles the whole day, fall into loneliness and embroider stars on your scars which are enough of looking murky and petrifying. Some emotions sew cozy mufflers like my grandma made out of hardworking love, and some machine-stitch mere words to poems. I want the ones in wayment to knit their yarns of illuminant hope around their sorrows which are poison portions killing day-by-day, like me, and I see those people complaining for the shopkeeper for having no silk threads to sell. I'm an elegy again, miserably.
    //A poet is a  "s i l k  t h r e a d"  who sews simple and broken words to wonderful and deep metaphors//

    I go through the arteries and veins of that poet who was mocked of penning blether, and I find blood rushing in great pressure; I couldn't withstand it. I heard their strident voices which coerced the thews of his hand to pick up that knife which cut fruits and pierce those evil nerves and get their enemy bad bloods oozing out in gallons. The world has failed to grasp and taste the complexity yet beautiful meanings his phrases hold, they have failed to a bad extent. I too want him to cut every axon of their bodies and peel out their skins which hold sins for accusing a good human. His triumph will be marked with bloodshed in his so called complex poems. I feel proud of being a poem which speaks of bloodshed and war in which metaphors emerge victorious.
    //A poet is a  "s e r i a l  k i l l e r"  who cuts every nerve of his woe and is yet bound to no legal objections//

    So the next time you meet a poet, know that he is a carcass who has been killed for his wordplay but still breathes phrases which are enough to make you feel ethereal.

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Nov 14, 2020.

    Fuelled by the pieces of @my_cup_of_poetry, @vantab1ack and @theultimateinsane ❤️
    { @phoenicorn Special tag ��❤️ }

    Thank you for the repost @writersnetwork ❤️ (53, 8)
    Thanks for reposting @writersbay (9) ❤️
    #skp_writes #catharsisc #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 56w

    | Body - A pain store |

    Glasses in my freezing hand,
    shattered with ferocious rage,
    serrated for scar(r)y crimsons.

    Pain in my soft blue hued eyes,
    shackled with muse's absence,
    satisfied with myriad fake faiths.

    Words in my salmon tinged lips,
    stopped with aching bondages,
    spread by inking deep tragedies.

    Confusions in my chaotic head,
    strengthened with their friends,
    scarped for answers to slither.

    Scars in my sepulchral heart,
    savoured with(out) (in)sanity,
    stratified with stars of dazzles.

    My soul in this heavenly hell,
    scrutinized with metaphors,
    slayed till smithereens display.

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Nov 12, 2020.

    @writersbay @sangfroid_soul @laus_deo @thewordplayer #skp_writes #dazzlec

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  • say_me_krish 56w


    ~ᴠᴇʀsᴇ 1~
    Now that the cold's coming
    I'll renew for you
    The autumns emerged slaying
    My love for you
    When the leaves start their screaming
    Will I control dew?
    And I'm sure I will remember
    the dark, the light

    ~ᴄʜᴏʀᴜs 1~
    You had cooled my summers,
    love and frozen desserts
    now dead, now dead, now dead,
    You had bloomed my springtimes,
    Lovely sunflowers
    now dead, now dead, now dead,
    But you hadn't shed my autumns
    maples with some raindrops
    stay on, stay on, stay on,
    Now I wait for a chill with you,
    Oh I wait for a chill with you

    ~ᴠᴇʀsᴇ 2~
    There's a blanket in my arm space
    Waiting for you
    A campfire with no blazes
    Is yearning for you
    Snowflakes of December
    All they want is just you
    But I need you now, till now,
    But where are you?

    ~ᴄʜᴏʀᴜs 2~
    You gave me some bracelets
    saying I was gold too
    I know, I know, I know,
    You gave me those chocolates
    saying I was sweet too
    I know, I know, I know,
    You showed me some rainbows
    But now I don't find them
    Why so, why so, why so?
    Told my heart you'll come
    and now she just pumps for you
    Now I wait for a chill with you,
    Now I wait for a chill with you,
    Oh I wait for a chill with you

    ~ɪɴsᴛʀᴜᴍᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ~

    ~ᴄʜᴏʀᴜs 2~

    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | Nov 9, 2020

    This is my version of the song 'Homesick' by Dua Lipa. Fits into the original tune as well.

    @writersbay #skp_writes #winterc
    Other such songs under #mademylyric_s

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  • say_me_krish 56w

    Happier birthday Sneha! Aise hi bak bak karti rehna behna ����
    Couldn't write a poem as good as you do, so adjust with this cheap one *sighs*

    @writersbay @poeticgirl #skp_writes

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  • say_me_krish 57w


    I was a tree with ceaseless salts being
    disgorged out every moment from casements
    and barks which forage for the affection
    and warmth breezes, petrichor and
    chlorophyll held in; for when verdures
    speak, loneliness enters voids of mum,
    and what all I had to do other than sheltering love,
    was accompanying that screamin' kid called silence
    who cried when his mother refused to give him
    the chocolates which were meant for autumn kids
    to relish upon with rains pouring down the crystals.

    Every breath accompanied by entities of a
    thousand leaves can always bring beams even
    in the wildest of downright hearts,
    for the tree which shed maple leaves once
    had scarlet and medallion flowers which smiled
    their departure to the heavens and swevens.
    And when I see November walking close to me,
    Death knocks my door holding sirens and speakers.
    Some trees are killed in hearths, and my time's close.

    I was failure for a bird
    with apprehension stuffed inside my bones,
    and suffering dangling as weight by my wings.
    I was devoid of feathers, wings and hope
    as they were plucked out mercilessly by my own kin.
    with all that gone, my strength had disintegrated into countless strings of pain,
    and i had lost my will to fight, as without the power of flight, there was no reason to live.

    On that dreary night, from the ruthless sky
    when I fell under your pacifying shade,
    your tender leaves dropped dewdrops in my eyes and relieved my vision from haze
    When I gained consciousness, I found myself resting on the ends of your strong branches.
    you had held me in your arms, like I was your baby and you caressed with subtle nuances
    I was counting my last breaths, but you assured me that everything will be fine
    but without wings, hope and energy, how would I be able to fly again in the sky?

    ©say_me_krish and veloc1ty_

    My collab with the legendary and famous writer @veloc1ty_ . The two initial stanzas are mine, and the rest are of Velo bro.
    @writersnetwork Thank you! (52, 7) #skp_writes #hearthc #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 58w

    I have tried to compare vase with love here. Love is called sacred and antique, and is said to hold Priceless auras. But the very reality is that Love is a bittersweet feeling, a coffee bean in a meal for a lifetime. It is all broken at the end with sharp ends of sorrows piercing every fragment of yours. Love has lost it vibes as a dandelion to the wind these days.

    P.S: I have not used even a single unnecessary space to keep the shape intact, and so I'm happy :D

    @writersnetwork THANKS FOR REPOSTING (50, 6)
    #skp_writes #dustyc #concretepoetry #concrete #wnnkrish

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    There rests the prized possession-
    a heirloom porcelain amphora
    holding charismatic rouge
    tinted flowers making
    love with the wind
    which flows only to see
    beams and blooms on those
    salmon lips. The wooden teapoy
    holds all memories inside its shelves
    for it knows that smiles will meet glooms
    one fine day, and flowers will wilt with the moon
    for phases of voids, together. Fresh paints upon the
    pulchritudinous piece has now found dusty tints within.
    Once adored by every guest, it is now a derelict, sleepin'
    in the corner of the room which none entered recently.
    The smooth hands which cleansed filth has drowned
    inside those illusionary satisfying games involving
    checkmates of shattering the king of hearts into
    bruised pawns, smaller than the bijou protons
    whose living feels pointless, yet prominent.
    The rose bouquets gifted with affections,
    concerns and varietal auras of flying
    butterflies have frozen n' drooped
    with time's rays of disgrace on
    the head making straight n'
    direct contacts; souls are
    im(mortal) existences.
    Those who say love
    is a magic forget
    to add on that
    prefix called
    aphotic. Vases
    are meant to shatter
    and mark their departures.

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Oct 29, 2020.

  • say_me_krish 59w


    Tonight, when my balcony doors bring some phosphorescence towards my stygian heart which is busy enough in intonating the verses I once wrote in the rustic pages using a lit matchstick, it refuses to get some newfangled air inside since it is already addicted to the hallucinations accompanied by the aroma of wilted roses which smell of melancholy and nostalgia all around. The very axiom that some signs are overlooked when in love is being reflected to every wall of my rooms so that it echoes to the extent where death feels inevitable. I've undressed the golden attire faith wore and burnt it down to ashes near my graveyard holding wild sunflowers in the garden where blooming was prioritized earlier. But for Satan's pleasure, everything has changed over time.
    /Ninety nine, ninety eight and walking towards the balcony where nineties and eighties are drinking champagne together/

    The mellifluous melody which sung lullabies resting my head on those solacing laps and ruffled my blonde hairs with smooth hands has started roaring like a werewolf in search of a prey with paws clenched to grip the feast tightly by 12 of the blue moon nights. The clock ticks slower than before so that pain flows through my bloodstream the slowest way possible, sucking all of my halcyon days inside, while small cyanide doses of memories eject out from the lymph nodes and end up harming my thoughts and expectations, bringing death ten steps closer.
    /Miles ahead come sixties accompanying fifties n' forties n' all dirty numerals sleeping in between/

    I go deep inside the warehouse of my brain cells and find happiness stuffed inside a box with the toughest lock ever found, while scars are wearing high heels and finding their couples and cousin danseuses even in absolute darkness. Memories are sidelined in a separate corner with legs broken and face distorted by acids of rancour, and the screams of those are making me feel my fairy sides flying away towards the stellars, the ones, which children fail in counting with their elfin fingers which cannot hold more weights and numbers.
    /The distance from thirties to twenties was just a kilometer, the end of my survival is not afar from my toes/

    Nineteen, eighteen and seventeen, handling the pressures of my resumed life is no more possible as those cameras which once captured smiles has negatives which are haunting me day and night. Months feel like hours passing away from the hourglass slowly and silently; the sands seep down with the air holding my survival. Thirteen, twelve and ten, I'm choking with blood in my mouth. I try walking upstairs, but crawling like a toddler is what all I can do, but unlike the innocent one which then knew nothing but happiness in the roses back then. Nine, eight, seven, my legs disagree to move forward, my hands tremble vigorously, my heart prompts me to continue, but the brain sends wise warning sirens which are ignored, as always. I don't want to, but I want to, and I will. I have reached the terrace now.
    /Six, five, four, everything tastes sour/

    With bloodstains all around me, everything seems crimson and black to my poor sights; the visions, which I curse now for making me what I'm today. I somehow manage to walk to the corner. In total haste and rage, I throw the bag filled with expectations and memories.
    /Three, two, one, and thud! I fall too; I'm finally dead/

    ~S r i K r i s h n a  P  S | Oct 22, 2020.

    @raika Thanks a lot for helping me out with this ❤️

    @writersnetwork Is this on the Popular, omg❤️��(48, 5) #skp_writes #lullabyc #melancholyc

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  • say_me_krish 59w


  • say_me_krish 59w

    A bit busy for two or three days. As soon as I get free, toh pakka dead-pan ka continuation hoga, sawrryy ��

    Till then, bear with my lame one-liners ��

    #skp_writes Oct 19, 2020.

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  • say_me_krish 59w

    ~Special hearts~

    Hmm, I suck at birthday wishes, I'm parcelling you a bunch of 'THE (apology) LETTERS' , read them all. Can't help 'I WANT TO GET HIGH' today. This is not 'FICTION' now ��

    When I entered this app at the beginning, you were the 5th person I met here, and I'm precise at my calculations, coz the other four were _tulip_, wildink, seyfert and soulfulstirrings. Your first impression on me was something really strong, and I can say that it has become stronger over time. I really hesitated back then to even comment, for a reason that I couldn't understand complex metaphors (I do that even now XD). I really wanted to talk with you and be a friend, but that never happened by God's disgrace. I talked to you only after your controversy as a consoling soul rather ��. But since then, I felt a soft corner for a persona like you, who can write the best, express well, stay truthful and lovely, care ; what else would I rather need? We became brothers over time, and I feel elated and proud on saying this. My opinions and affection for you might be 'ONE SIDED', but I don't care about that. I try to inculcate your writing style, but this apparation called Lame doesn't seem to leave me. My feelings for you I'm expressing here are just 'EXCERPTS FROM THE DIARY'. 'THAT SONG' which I had written for you is missing, let me find them soon��

    As a writer, wow, you can write 'DIABOLIC' things so dark and satisfyingly 'UGLY', you write some posts which are literally 'SLAYERS', you also write some heartwrenching posts which are still in my 'SOUVENIRS', it all feels like, I just want 'ONE MORE SHOT', and I'll still want more. 'IF (YOUR) WORDS HAD WINGS', the poems would have surely been eagles flying triumphantly. Even a 'CORPSE' would rise alive again just to read those poems, so wonderful they're. Even 'VERSES OF PEACE' gain rage and inspo after a read. I always prefer reading your poems with the 'RAIN', it seems perfect!

    Happiest birthday dear brother @thewordplayer . You'll always be damn special to me, and I mean it. Till then, keep some 'WHISKEY' and 'CIGARETTE' for me too, don't enjoy them all alone �� Gifting you 'THE BLACK WATCH', a special edition one.

    PS: Searching your profile pic took me an hour. Appreciate me ^-^

    PPS: I hope you understood what I tried to do here :"(

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  • say_me_krish 60w

    | Daring deaths |

    There are some junctures when you start loving Edgar Allen Poe and his poems; I too am living in this genus of the contemporary. The aureole around the moon seems aphotic and befuddled in the night times; it looks like radiances losing their own charisma in front of despondency. I really felt like an alamort soul who has been transpierced just once and thrown besides the dug up sepulchre to bury myself. It is all understood of late by the fact that all contradictions don't turn out as postulates just like you expect; this word called 'Unexpected' pops out of any nook and corner.

    When I 'Fell' in love, I felt butterflies flying in my stomach with the best feelings dancing triumphantly in the air of my heart. But as soon as I realized that I had drowned, I was only left with memories which were mere butterfly times, which flew yonders away from me. Being an lepidopterologist might have helped maybe, but it is all fair to cascade first and rise with a heap of memories in hand then. It wasn't strange for me, some things are meant to bring miseries, and they surely will. Epiphanies have crossed my mind saying: "Not all angels fly, some wings are ripped apart".

    I never believed in kismet's play, till listening to Taylor Swift's 'Treacherous', coz the title breathed of my experiences, and shadowed me somewhere. When I first met her, I felt it was all done, and indeed, it ended, but as a dark poem rather than a fairytale. I had seen my cosmos in her almond eyes, a bunch of galaxies and a millions of stars with shimmering sagas of our love. After sayonaras, I unexpectedly found myself in the abyss, the black one. When you leave yourself in someone, finding yourself back can never happen. The ones who hold your journals must return it too. It holds signifance as well.

    Death doors had some light for my fáilte with all pride amidst the biggest pandemic, but when I realized I, myself, was the disease(d), I shattered into pieces, literally, smithereens. I'm feeling incomplete of since broken. Crimson- hued glasses are all distorted mercilessly. It takes something to realize the very fact that you are not you anymore. But somehow, I bite the bitter gourds. I desire to wave to death by gathering all my fragments which she broke up, take back all my happy hopes she snatched, get hold on everything of my universe; I want it all back, except Love. Love hurts when it doesn't have two streams uniting together for oceans without horizons, right?

    I wouldn't die of sorrow and pain, I would wish to be averted in the confines of a photo frame after bringing a tempest rather. I wish to be a strong persona; penning down dark proses isn't my genre anymore. I will emerge victorious, I will bring back at least a part of myself, safe and sound. By then, be ready to invite me into your abode, the one having rooms of Expiry dates.

    /Are you ready for me?/

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Oct 17, 2020

    Highly inspired by @clockwork_mnemosyne ����

    @writersnetwork @writersbay @thewordplayer
    #skp_writes #shadowc #lettersc
    (Epiphany, happen, happy, pain, any, heap etc)

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  • say_me_krish 60w


    ᴠᴇʀsᴇ 1:
    You were the muse of my poesies
    Did you feel them?
    Just one more line, and it's incessant,
    The rhyme schemes hold more air inside,
    did you breathe them, my love?

    ᴘʀᴇ-ᴄʜᴏʀᴜs 1:
    Wanna hear my name
    From those sweet mouths
    And then feel that
    It was all what my heart waited for
    Wanna hear my name
    Lemme set my playlists on repeat

    ᴄʜᴏʀᴜs 1:
    Wanna hear my name
    On mountains, and in the skies, in the skies oh,
    Wanna hear my name, in melodies,
    My love is yearning for some song today
    I love you, I love you,
    More than I love myself, I love you,
    So darling, say I love you

    ᴠᴇʀsᴇ 2:
    These days you got me feeling roses bloomin' in my soul
    It feels so good with a spring inside
    Sunshine is beaming in my home,
    Once darkened, now bright

    ᴘʀᴇ-ᴄʜᴏʀᴜs 2:
    Wanna hear my name (name, name, name)
    Flowing straight from your heart (heart, heart, heart)
    From narrow but elegant streams
    Of your love I wanna
    Hear my name, hear my name

    ᴄʜᴏʀᴜs 2:
    Wanna hear my name
    In echoes, and some bellows, those happy ones, ah,
    Wanna hear my name, in reality,
    I'm longing with desires my shadowee {soulmate}
    I love you, I love you,
    More than I love myself, And finally,
    You said me, I LOVE YOU

    ~S r i K r i s h n a  P  S | Oct 16, 2020.

    My version of Alan Walker's FADED. It fits into the original tune :)
    Find other such songs in #mademylyric_s

    @writersbay Thank u (5) ❤️
    @_rainfrost_ (Welcome back ��)
    #skp_writes #songc #shadowc

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  • say_me_krish 60w

    | Hansel n' Gretel |

    The sunlight passing from the impenetrable canopies
    made trackway to a bijou house, where inhabited a
    forest contractor, his spouse and two little children-
    a young boy, Hansel, and a winsome wench, Gretel.
    The father defined altruism but his wife loved ironies.
    The ships were sailing with good balances, for then,
    but kismet's work is to shatter virtuous hourglasses.
    The father got bedridden then, and money tricked out
    in the attenuated streams aside the verdure orchards.

    "The breezes scream of freeze, and campfires of heat,
    you sleep empty-handed, what do we all have to eat?
    A small loaf of bread is what is left in those platters,
    It's good we leave those kids in the woods to scatter,
    so that at least we both get through the tough times,
    and pass winters cooking meat with chimney fumes".

    The father though, couldn't help but keeping silence,
    and the children listening all this by hiding did it too.
    "Wild demons have their feasts", weeped Gretel sadly,
    "Wisdom excels consternations", said Hansel in calm.
    When moonlight was drunk of silence and st(ell)ars
    shimmered lights of halcyon and twinkled bright, he
    walked up to the lawn and took those cobblestones,
    hoping for a better morrow dawning with good fates.

    Dawn just woke up with yawns, and came their mum,
    with the breads sliced two, and mercy killed long ago,
    to drop them deep in those woodlands and repudiate.
    Wise Hansel dropped stones all along the muddy path,
    and reappeared home harmless, by the next daylights.
    Same plans fit cruel minds again, and innocence hears,
    but when silence prevailed today, doors were locked.
    "Almighty will destine me to the right voids" spoke he,
    and slept with rhythmic lullabies, of hopes and fireflies.

    Hansel drops breadcrumbs in the paths, the next bloom,
    which took them to the greenwoods, thicker than prior.
    Alas! The pigeons ate off the breads, and they were lost.
    "Perplex minds lack courage, but not aspirations" said he
    and went in the paths sunshine danced like smiling dolls.
    But soon did dusk love them, and it was aphotic around.

    A beast came their way as expected, gargantuan it was
    with chests black, teeth demonous and gob too wide,
    "You'll be eaten" said the demon with awkward laughs,
    "We can do anything for you, lord" said the clever one.
    "Get me some fleshy animal for the meal", it exclaimed.
    Afraid, they both went on, in quest of some assistance,
    and they met a white angel, with wings and magic stick
    who came as the coolest winds to their adrenaline rush.

    "Honesty and goodness are honey which never rotten,
    souls take efforts to make this thing, and appreciations
    always run behind hardwork, a challenging one indeed.
    All wisdom and kindness of you both is complimented",
    said she, and gave them a deer and some magic spells.
    Calmly did they leave, and gave it to the cruel cannibal,
    chokes accompanied yums, poisons resulted in its death.
    And surprises soon came by the spells, when they saw
    themselves in their home, now filled with lots of riches,
    accompanied by warm smiles of their fit and fine father.

    /Satan departs at the end and kindliness arrives in with
    radiance to gift the moon when its charisma feels lorn/

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Oct 15, 2020

    My version of the famous fairytale "HANSEL AND GRETEL".
    @writersnetwork (46, 5) #skp_writes #creativearena

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    Winter outside, hatred inside,
    and you never knew which was worse.

  • say_me_krish 60w


    Tonight, the night sky is drunk on Plath's rhymes with silence, encased in a state of immobile free fall. Foreshadowing the day's end, moonlight smells like the fathomless echoes of the purple-lily scented wind, that makes my windowpane stutter and rattle against my blue coloured-walls, that accompany him as he makes his way towards my tepid cottage with smattering foundations and a strikingly finite number of bricks consisting it. As his blue-eyed face examines this terrain, a hundred blackbirds begin to sing a wayward symphony he composed and recited to another innocent lass a few warm afternoons awash with a plethora of cherry blossoms and swirling dandelions ago. he flashes a crooked smile painted with the colour of discolouration and the smile the shadows of the skeletons in his closet have.

    He met me last winter, and I thought I saw serendipity all around me as he traced the spaces between the words of my favourite sonnet with fingers dipped in yellow paint. I ran away from him in the summer, when I found a knife in the backseat of his car with an autumn leaf lying in a corner, painted in dulcet. He came back to visit in autumn, and the autumn sky turned from yellow to a green that day with a hurricane screeching somewhere in the corner. They called him love, I called him a saboteur of the heavens, who broke hearts at the break of dawn, proved that love was but maroon, and made the glimmer of a July night weak by choking it with rain, fade away into the apocalypse forevermore, to hide, to fear, and to wonder where it all went wrong. I call him death.

    And death never comes with a knock. It has got alternate keys too; the ones which were stole from cloak-and-daggers when emotions aeriformed from my mouth to his. Tornadoes came in disguise of kissing zephyrs, and I couldn't thwart falling. The fall to the abyss whose walls are painted in black, with a witch giving strange smiles lingering on with guilty pleasures is making me frightened. The autumn leaves are caterwauling for renascence, but their coffins made of forlorn hopes are ready for burial. They who say "Love needs a second chance" haven't met maple leaves till date. I was just applying medicaments of Branded hope to my heart's wounds, and some unordered ones are already ready to stay on; heartaches are my destiny, at the end.

    When lemans come with roses, he came in holding a bouquet of aconites and orange lilies. His teeth which beamed of treachery and misery were covered with stronger enamels. He took my journal and put it to the fires. I saw my epochs being charred into slate shades. I never knew that my graves were kept ready in my garden of dandelions and sunflowers. I just wore a black cloth on my eyes and walked on fire. My legs are burning up my hopes again, they are bleeding misery, but it seems that the crimson-hues flow incessant. Again, he took me yonders away from my bed of survival, his cyanide smiles made it all clear. The pantomime show I made has destroyed me myself.

    I am molded by the memories that plucked the blazing moments of my life; molded into mere bones in choking coffins. The wild sunflowers have wilted upon my graves, and I'm still breathing poetries in my ashened diaries, with a hope, that somebody will come and rebirth my poetries with real metaphors. Will HE come for me?
    /No, it is dusk already/

    A collab with the legendary @_aesthete_ as
    TEAM ENIGMA for #daadisbae (Lines 1,2)
    @writersnetwork @writersbay @laus_deo @sunsets #skp_writes #epochc

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  • say_me_krish 61w

    This is an Elfchen poem.
    11 words, 11 colours, 11 stanzas :)

    @writersnetwork @writersbay @laus_deo
    #skp_writes #pod #creativearena

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    Shades of Life

    Pearly snowflakes
    Candyfloss cloudy sky
    Empyrean shade of peace

    Arousing sunshine
    Beaming wild sunflowers
    Positive tone of enlightment

    Saccharine fruits
    Shedding maple leaves
    Mild hue of encouragement

    Haemoglobin blood
    Bewitching sunset sights
    Romantic tinge of attraction

    Roly- poly cheeks
    Springtimes with Sakuras
    Feminine denotion of affection

    Intelligent walnuts
    Trunks holding verdures
    The colour of wholesomeness

    Lovely lavenders
    Highly virulent foxgloves
    Nostalgia and frustrating gloom

    Amaranthine oceans
    Dayspring with hydrangeas
    The potential of understanding

    Suspiring leaves
    Precious dark emeralds
    Colour of emotional healing

    Etiolated carcasses
    Segments of cobblestones
    Mature colour of conventionality

    Bloodthirsty panthers
    Expressive charcoal pencils
    Blackness stands with elegance

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Oct 10, 2020.

  • say_me_krish 61w

    @pranat03 Your work inspired me (and many felt it as well����)
    @writersnetwork @sangfroid_soul @laus_deo
    #skp_writes #pod

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  • say_me_krish 61w

    The poetic form is an INTERLOCKING RUBAIYAT, which is comprised of quatrains having an aaba rhyme scheme. The next para rhymes by the unrhymed word and each line is a pentameter (10 syllables)
    Rhyme scheme: aaba | bbcb | ccdc | dded

    @thewordplayer See I did it, a pentameter ����
    @writersnetwork (45, 5) @writersbay @sangfroid_soul @laus_deo
    #skp_writes #alone #emberc

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  • say_me_krish 61w

    Start or end your piece with
    "And the strangest thing........." and tag me under the hashtag #andthestrangestthing

    @writersnetwork (43, 5)@sangfroid_soul @laus_deo #skp_writes

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