#thisisquitelong

3 posts
  • blueballad 15w

    Because I have known despair, I value hope- Leonard Nimoy

    #journal #wod @miraquill @writersnetwork #thisisquitelong #nightc @writersbay

    24/08/2021, 8:40 am

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    And The Doctor Cried: "Bliss!"

    I have come to the realization that hospitals are the best place to catch the latest trends in fashion- albeit strange. Reason?

    It wasn't unfamiliarity per say. It was more of the willingness to want to relate, but can't.

    So I proceeded to sit on a long bench,
    Just me.
    And in the opposite direction sat three people:

    A young mother,
    Held a baby: The daughter of early beginnings looked quite shirty.
    Long mitts of sleepless nights were wrapped around her tiny hands,
    Yellow - flowered shoes the size of a whisper, were first deemed too tight, then very interesting, then of no use once again.
    And the mother: Her blue scarf was the length of tiredness,
    Donning weary eyes and an elegiac smile as the stellar accessories, in colours of brown and nude, respectively.
    Her green muddy flats had stravaged through unrelenting remedies; maybe a few layers of vomit.
    A name was called. She hoisted her interesting baby upon her shoulders. She left. Paediatric ward.

    Next: A middle aged lady.
    Clocking around her late thirties maybe.. I was no good with ages.
    She wore a black skirt symbolic of one who carries the weight of diligence, and white heels the length of intimidation.
    She dusted off the sleeves of her navy blue jacket,
    Gently. The material was probably made by the designer called: a lot of money,
    Beautiful. She looked...important.
    A name was called. With strides of click-clacking faith, yet uncertainty. She left. Oncology ward.

    Lastly: an elderly woman,
    Grey hair toussled in waves of nostalgia, the ends a light shade of melancholy,
    Brown slippers implied one who had walked and had meant it,
    Maybe even owned it.
    Large red flannelled shirt, the top button undone: she was dangerous- but only when she felt like it.
    Loose black trousers screamed "Fragile, but I really don't want your pity"
    Pink sunglasses the size of deliberate.
    A name was called. A nurse came by. She was put on a wheelchair. She left. Cardiac ward.

    Whereas I,
    I wore nothing.
    The night stayed by my side, yet our names were never called.
    We never left.
    We couldn't relate.


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 15w

    #perspective #wod #thisisquitelong @miraquill @writersnetwork #madnessc @writersbay

    I really love words, in case you haven't noticed

    You become. It takes a long time - The Velveteen Rabbit

    23/08/2021, 9:15 am

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    The Concept Of Writing Bad Poetry

    The word "CLICHÉ" brews madness in its spaces,
    An irking, unnerving, dismantling means to make me see you for everything as, and for everything yet to come.
    Still...
    I want to fall in love with you a bit more everyday,
    Just little pieces here and there in the MORNING. We use words such as "DULCET"- sweet, sugary, like the kisses hidden beneath my ear, indenting reason, maybe truth on the skin I have gifted to you in the moment of uncertainty, yet purpose.
    "FETCHING"- pretty, like the water running down your shoulders as we are bare bodied beneath our insecurities, which even the loudest moans cannot quell.
    We ease into intensity in the AFTERNOON:
    "LAGNIAPPE"- A special kind of gift 'tis your smile underneath the sun; or the jealousy of the passerbys as they see your hand in mine, guiding the fragility your fingers deem tender.
    "DINKUM"- Genuine, authentic, like your worries when you tell me the grounds of the earth always forget to bless the sweat of your feet. The son of the soil cries "weary" to the rays of the afternoon sun.
    Then it is all at once at NIGHT: Cataclysmic, Dangerous, Overwhelming, aren't enough to describe it. It's more of
    "RASASVADA"- Towering above me, you are the cynosure of essence, and I look a little more pretty when you whisper my name to the moon.
    "KALON"- And suddenly beautiful words were not enough to describe it. Your worth was sought beyond your being- dearest, it's catastrophic... and I wanted to taste it all, feel it all,
    And love it all.
    I wanted to love us like the poets love us.


    The word "HABROMANIA" is defined as: Delusions of Happiness.
    Delusions are false beliefs such as that which I had of the patterns of your thoughts used to describe me: first I was beautiful; then I was unsettling; then you ran away into the,
    "FUGACIOUSNESS" of Happiness: You faded... so easily it was almost surprising, and I'm so scared to admit I was wrong,
    This time- today
    It's madness,
    The way you were into established into "NOTHING" by the very ground you grew upon,
    "ME",
    I was salt and water to your wounds,
    A Lana song on a summer day,
    I wanted to kiss it all away
    Damn it, I was the sea. Hell, I was the Sun
    But then again,
    I was also the pretty words you could never remember,
    "UNDERSTAND"


    ©b l u e

  • blueballad 16w

    I am going to make everything around me beautiful. That will be my life- Elsie de Wolfe

    #risks #wod #thisisquitelong

    I'm overwhelmed. Thanks so much for the EC @miraquill
    And thanks so much for the repost. You truly made my morning. I'm honoured @writersnetwork


    18/08/2021, 8:37 am

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    'Nubivagant' Is Such A Lovely Adjective

    I was five feet deep in waters of troubled beginnings,
    And I looked about to see if there was anyone around to notice, that maybe, I didn't want to lose my footing,
    To drowning,
    Even deeper into my misdeeds,
    But then maybe,
    The sun was tired of offering second chances,
    And the rains got bored of gifting pitiful glances,
    And the maybes just got tired,
    Because why waste time on an entity prone to perfidious desires,
    When time....time does not wait for:
    She who shadow-boxes imaginary opponents,
    She who seeks the depths of freedom with the hopes of confinement,
    She who is delusional yet chimerical, esoteric yet authentic,
    Sometimes misanthropic,
    Probably even beyond ordinary understanding,
    And all the words that look pretty- and yes, words are truly pretty,
    And so is the work of art that is her smile,
    When she wakes up each morning,
    To decide that "maybe" isn't pretty enough,
    To jump on clouds with, or race to rainbows with, or write poems with,
    And carve dreams with,
    Because five feet isn't deep enough to be drowned in,
    Nor is fifty feet to be dead in,
    Because the daughter of the sea cannot sink,
    Given that forever isn't far from tomorrow,
    And she is the entire world floating on ecstasy,
    Albeit clumsily,
    And her name makes a crutch slip in your heart,
    And stories shall be written of how she woke up each morning,
    To decide that Blue was the bravest colour to ever exist.


    ©b l u e