I battled a thousand storms and survived a hundred cuts, but there is something about that one smile which destroys the warfield and embraces my lips. Something that makes me feel warm.
I painted a thousand nights and drew a hundred moons, but there is something in the way how she walks by and all the colours merge into a single shade and let the stars make their patterns. Something that makes me feel light.
When I stitch my spurting wounds and reverberate my hundred cries, she rests her hands over mine, and there is something in her spiritual touch which rebirths invisible strands and sings scars to slumber. Something that makes me feel alive.
And when her deep-set blue eyes glance my nuances over time, there is something which makes the moment paraylsed and the heartbeats refurbished. Something which aligns the sunflowers towards the sun fervently. Something that makes me feel fulfilled.
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | July 12, 2020 _____________________________________________
'Somethings' can be described so much that they go indescribable. Paradox? Cliché?
If poetry was a person, it would scream my voices.
My wordly atoms would be constituted of th-rot-tling lines and mephitic scents, and my dear allegories served in those cafeterias would be spit even by the best epi-cure. It is y o u who transformed my journey to this bundle of mess, and yet, you don't regret.
You say you fill the voids of the world, n' then you empty my beautiful breaths into potholes which do not deserve layerings. I have birthed millions with agonizing moments, and you never thought of filling those spaces between my words which screamed of liberation for your own welfare. Your absurdity has no bounds.
You slayed your own kids and kin, swayed swords past their necks so cruel, tortured your own siblings till the limits exceeded, but now, I'm un--prepared to stay silent. When you can kill my surfaces in minutes, remember dear, I play my games in seconds.
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | June 05, 2021 _____________________________________________
12309kunjuWow! Beautiful lines. Your words are magical.✨ You can publish your writeups in a book and become a Published Co-author. I'm compiling an Anthology named, "Strings of My Heart". Dm me on Instagram @anju.jayakumar.712...if you want to be a co-author in this book and rewrite your own stars. You will get many rewards.❤️
On some days, we were beauteous sunsets draped with myriad merlots of hopes and illuminations of an allegory we'd made along during the daytime, looking past our eyes like never before. And now I'm lingering for the stars, and nothing ever seems to radiate my soul like y o u. --- Disappeared daylights ---
On some days, we were camera shutters trying to encapsulate the best of junctures; the ones which, when looked into in future life, would glisten blazes of soothe and lights of bistre fireflies. And now, I am unable to find any joy towards reminiscence; the storms in me feel a l i v e. --- Forlorn folklores ---
On some days, we were battlefield ballads trying to hold extant in us the charisma and the beliefs that togetherness is our dear child, and we can feed him amidst the most terrible times. And we ended up being great failures, who couldn't revive sonnet 116 in their n a m e s. --- Sardonic summaries ---
And on this day, you are misery to my thousand pieces lying on the ground, distorted and slayed, and I, am just another prey to your play, the one, which has been history, and will ne'er cease to be one tomorrow too. Honey, we were fairytales recited over and over, until we were levigated into mere d u s t. --- Evanescent evermores ---
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | May 24, 2021 _________________________________________________
ALSO REFER: > merlots : a gradient of red > allegory (here): metaphor > sonnet 116 : Shakespeare's famous sonnet describing love
All he yearned was for radiance, and she, was charm draped in yellow, glistening her way through his mere mortal; the one which pumped just two shades of red now sent one more throughout his rags. He, became a saccharine orange, and his reds taught haemoglobin, what love is.
Her smile was a permanence for his faded life; she bloomed since she saw roses blooming in the garden which was a graveyard holding rustic sunflowers. Every leman has a shade of vermilion with him, and his wasn't new to him anymore, old friends after all. He started watering his red roses, and she, kissed him everyday with red lipsticks; a sunkissed (le)man he was, indeed.
They talked days and nights, walked towards azure oceans, appreciated the boundless skies to have inspired by their love. He turned blues towards joy, asked his violets to fantasize and empower purple lilies as symbols as love; and she stood there, thinking of ballads of bittersweet betrayal.
When tides hit his shores, he felt his old deaths reviving back in new attires with the same old vintage smile. The lands which were barren weren't lifeless anymore; Wordsworth knocked his doors and asked for entry, and his roses agreed. He felt his gardens had no thorns, but he forgot that his(-s)tory is meant to rain back in a new form, everytime. She smiled.
The evergreens seemed to grow into trees. She, the light, and he, the water, oh, a couple so beautiful. He was bestowed happiness, but she found and decorated the cracks their abodes had. He, felt she was a tree giving shelters to his life, and she, was the one which sucked in waters and killed other verdures.
The game had started, and a season had ended. He had to welcome maples, and lose her soul, again. The unchaperoned benches waited for him, and the rustic diaries smelt of nostalgia, again. He, poured his blood out to write elegies which would last ages, alas! His blood turned black of toxic pain(t). Too much red is dark, and too much love is lone.
Treachery is a flood, a pleasure in the beginning, and an apparition by the end. He, weeped oceans and drowned himself in metaphors, and she, shared herself with a new face; another future destined to death. What is love isn't love anymore, and what seemed vibrant isn't the same anymore. Dinginess is a powerful hue indeed.
A journey from lighthouses to dark forests, is misery indeed. He, tore himself down to the last speck of sad poetry possible, and she, sketched the entire plot. Now tell me, who gets the credit? The dead, or the red?
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | May 7, 2021 ______________________________________________
ALSO REFER - > Nashville : a blue gradient > Unchaperoned : unaccompanied > Wordsworth : William Wordsworth
Couldn't have had a better third pod. Thank you so much for this overwhelming gift and surprise reposts @mirakee and @writersnetwork ❤️ (67, 11) Krish adores you and will miss you both ------------
| A life without a facade |
My mother advised me to have a bigger mouth but to make some ornate filigrees as my borders so that the population of my conversation doesn't drown due to overflow, and anger accompanying can make my words dipped in sinister letters. She said that people judge by my parlances, and I should neither bring droughts nor floods. -- L i m i t a t i o n s --
My father ordered me to read about the Statue of Liberty for some motivations and applications for straight spines while walks, but warned me to transform my copper-parts to layered and steady stainless-steel crockeries. He believes that rust cannot have paints upon, and a plate can relish and make savour too. -- T o u g h n e s s --
I said to both of them that living alone can still be a priority, but wearing a facade is not. Speaking is a choice, talking an option, and being myself is an essence. My postures are my own, and being somebody else kills my existence, my breakage can only happen when I give a chance, and I do not. I said change isn't The law of nature, and my jingle is "to evolve, improve and amend" -- (R) e v o l u t i o n --
They said I do not understand the world, I said they did not understand what being myself meant to me. -- S e l f l o v e --
~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Dec 20, 2020 ___________________________________________________
The previous post is meant for farewell itself, so let's make this a nice and normal literary post :)
ALSO REFER: ornate filigrees- a metaphor for fences
I've spent my 70080 hours thinking of a world without your presence in a universe which has exploded my love for you and made it absent in your heart, and present in the abyss.
It is strange how the bathtub which drenched me in red rose petals and the colourless existence drowned me in the presence of dejection with pain holding purple chrysanthemums for my funeral in the bathroom, and it will happen in my absence, since the place which finds my presence will be a coffin and a pit of reasons which would be closed with some extra soil of excuses. After all, there lies no difference in the journey from the tub to the wood-box, burial is present as a mathematical common factor, and the only thing which is absent, is y o u.
The showers make me feel cold, my blood feel clotted, my body feel numb, and myself feel dead. The campfires which we blazed together for some warmth, for our absent love, and for Santa to get some heat after his journey on sleigh would be completed has burnt my fantasy and non-fiction, and it seems to be total injustice. The fire, again, is present, but rage and gradients decide whether it warms or burns. And the love letters which danced in the almirahs to romance melodies are absent, and I wish I could satisfy the Hunger of the blaze and make myself absent.
Whatever is absent for the one, might still be present for the other, like you, who still fakes a smile upon the chest of that guy, who might feel your absence and presence at the same time someday, just like I do. And while saying this, I wish I could've made you absent to the entire world, but my mother has taught me goodness, and said not to hurt anybody else.
I'm gonna ask her why she didn't clarify me that I shouldn't hurt my existence just for somebody's absence. The world was injust for me, and justice is still present they say, and the ones who say this are the o n e s who made her b l i n d
~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Dec 11, 2020 ______________________________________________
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. ___________________________________________________
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?
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. ~say_me_krish
P.S: I have not used even a single unnecessary space to keep the shape intact, and so I'm happy :D
Time was running out and so did my "redolent_smile". I'm a soul who is "_still_in_mess", a chaotic mess rather. Everything seems like a "divulgingenigma" in the "dusky_dawn", really impractical to my sights. A "thousand_splendid_thoughts" flow out from my mind with the greatest "veloc1ty_" possible, but fly with the wind like "dandelions" to the far city of "amsterdam". The "pen_and_paper" duet fail to dance together for the melody of the "ni89gale". Thoughts that were once "raika" (beautiful) and brought "bushra" (happy news or lucky) are now completely "sifar" (zero), lied down with a "pacific" gesture, the one "manasa" (intelligence) means. Those sweet "musings_" used to flow out of hands like "saya__" (sand), but has now frozen like a "_rainfrost_" and burnt in "Piyu(l)" (fire). "thewingedpen" is now choking, all of a sudden. "countablyinfinite" sorrows surround my "halcyonn" now, just like "mauve_" skies being surrounded by "thegreymetaphor(s)" and "blackbird(s)_".
Narrating those joyous "petrichor_tales" from those "sereiin" scenes feels tough now. The life which once spoke of "soulfulstirrings" is now in "pluto", yonders away. The "seyfert" which used to shine earlier has undergone massive supernova explosion. The poet who used to call himself as "thewordplayer" has forgot the definitions of love and concern. The heart which used to be "bouncy" in her presence, has stopped its rhythm. The "belovedwish" which spoke of "the_creation_in_our_stars" has now split up to form "broken_fragments_of_imagination". "_mysoul" is feeling "anecdoche" currently. I'm taking back my words; "lovethatneverfades" was never in existence. The "poeticgirl" who was mine, has vanished to nowhere now. All I need is a permanent sleep now, and I say, "iamsleepy", an "adithi" (limitless) kinda rest, and I'm sure my sleep would be devoted; an "_aradhya" (worshipped) death.
"thesunshinelove(r)s" are shifting towards darkness and night skies. Those greetings and "hopenotes__" I had given to her are now rusted. The "void" inside me is killing me day by day. I hate "laus_deo" (praise to god), for the only reason for snatching her away from me. The "love_whispererr" in me is dead. Memories worth "zohaib" (gold) are thrown away mercilessly. I don't find any fault in myself, for she filled "my_cup_of_poetry" with poison of betrayal. My "_hessa_" (destiny) perhaps wanted me to be "a_vagabond_soul", a lone one, a "zilch__", who is pushed out of "tengoku" (heaven). A historical "odysseus" is dying here, the legendary "krish" is being slayed, would you come rescue? The ship having "preet" (love) is sinking miserably now.
No sines and "cosines" seem to be arriving to my rescue. All I find around myself is a bunch of "maleficent_" souls. I'm that reactant in a chemical reaction whose destruction is denoted by that symbol "_delta". My weeps too flow like a "tortoise", and maybe that's the reason why I'm alone. It feels like I'm being a "villain__" to my own story. I felt like an "anamika" (without a predetermined destiny) who is being slayed by some "ishita" (superior) power. Love has got to be "pranat" (soft and polite) now.
I feel now that I've been given time to realize that I MATTER to myself. I rush to see myself in the "mirror" today, and I find a beautiful soul to my rescue. I realize, that I'm a strong soul, a "sangfroid_soul", who wears his "colourfulgreys" as the best ornaments, the antique ones. I have my "faodail" now, IT'S ME. The gentle "eurus" seems to hug me to appreciate my realizations. My "diya(bedi)" is lit up by my optimism, is what I believe now. L for love, is now, L for leave. M for memories is now "m_4_mee".
~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Oct 4, 2020. _______________________________________________
I wanted to mark this post special, and that was the reason behind writing this. I've used many Indian names, in the sense of the meanings. I hope it doesn't sound peculiar.
zeee_zephyrswhat is this!!? Omg! how can someone be so creative This is such a great master master master masterpiece..... Even emojis can't express how shock I am after reading this. The structure is tooooo(×10) good!!
carefree_07Woowww!!! This is so amazing!!!! Creative!!!!
bouncyNiku e age lo intha perception ela vachindhi babu I was playing on roads back then
This is beautyy
nivey14Ahhhh!!!! How did I miss alll thisss...!! I still wonder where was I.. Each para... Each lines is sooooo wonderful✨.. Reading your piece I remember someone too has written such.. But both are soo beautiful..!!! Beauty is in the eyes of the beholder
I've done good compromise with grammar and punctuations so as to keep the shape firm. And, do read the complete version of the piece below. (The shape I tried was a streetlight) ----------------------------------------------------------------------------
R(P)AIN AND TOWNS.
I love the towns on rainy nights; The pleasing aroma of the petrichor, The pattering sounds on roofs When hit by those minuscule droplets of soothing pluvios, The bliss zephyr that warms your soul Along with those soft kisses of the azure rains, Perfectly tuned with a coffee cup in hands n' Favourite lyrics whispered by the sweet watermelon lips.
Citylights seem to glisten the diamonds- The captivating drops of mizzles. For they do scatter light by themselves- The light of grace and rejoice, The light which reflects my spectrum of emotions. //Rains in citylights look more attractive Than prisms dispersing spectrum bands//
Drizzles in the voice seem to speak a lot to me, For they do have similar senses to me, For their eyes long to meet their love- the grounds. They hug themselves bosom tight, Making me remember my saga, A lorn book of my life. //But they do make differences, As I never regained and never enjoyed, But they do meet and enjoy//
The paved asphalt roads now look Like wide pearl chains, with crystals close. Footpaths are mere gardens with a sight, Where leaves seem charming with dewdrops, And flowers longing for sun to bloom. //Every vision here is rejoicing, Except one mere fact- Towns can never completely personify My nature's beauty and aura//
After the body leaves my soul, I want myself , To see my allies carrying my souvenirs Out of my funerals. To see those fireflies Lighting up my body amidst the fires. To see those comely flowers Embracing me like my love. To see myself in confines Of a picture frame, smiling wide. To see my life being appreciated By all gobs, to be the best. To see at least one soul Missing me and my smiles. To see my teachers Complementing me to their students. To see my life saga In those pages of history. To see my ashes Being kissed by the holy river.
Above all, I want to see Myself as a giver, A giver of joy and affection; A beautiful side of mine, Which I never saw in myself, But others did.
~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | July 17, 2020 _______________________________________________