15 posts
  • say_me_krish 21w

    | I k i g a i |

    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?

    Thank you for the kind repost and EC @writersnetwork (77, 16) ♥️
    @squared #skp_writes #words #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 25w

    Meanings and my interpretation in the comment section :)

    @daffodilpearlzz Your guess was the closest. Congratulations, and thank you! ��♥️
    @kairos_ I did it somehow *sighs*
    @my_cup_of_poetry Special tag, you know why :)

    Thank you @writersnetwork ♥️ (76, 15)
    #skp_writes #tautogram #acrostic #wnnkrish

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    Struggles and smiles

    Painful phases,
    permeating pain-t-s,
    perturbing precipitations,
    and a person who poses behind pleated papers.

    Expending energies,
    enigmatic expressions,
    exasperating emergencies,
    and an earthling who fears endangerment hues.

    Random rancours,
    rarefied reassurances,
    renouncing representatives,
    and a race which rebirths radiant red rattles.

    Inane idiosyncrasies,
    impending impediments,
    inconspicuous inconveniences,
    and a life which implores inchoate inceptions.

    Offensive odours,
    obs-cure objections,
    occupational onslaughts,
    and an origin who obtains ocean opportunities.

    Disdain delusions,
    disconsolate di-stress,
    decelerating detriments,
    and a demure darling who dares debacles.

    Severe superstitions,
    simultaneous scrutinies,
    satisfactory stratifications,
    and a sanguine specimen who smiles sunflowers.

    ~ S r i K r i s h n a P S | June 12, 2021

  • say_me_krish 26w

    | A rage worth everything |

    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

    From the pov of Mother earth.

    Thanks for the kind repost @writersnetwork ❤️
    (74, 14) #skp_writes #start #wod #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 28w

    | The city we never were |

    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

    > merlots : a gradient of red
    > allegory (here): metaphor
    > sonnet 116 : Shakespeare's famous sonnet describing love

    @writersnetwork Thanks a lot ������❤️ (70, 13)
    #skp_writes #tale #cg_city_chall #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 30w


    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

    > Nashville : a blue gradient
    > Unchaperoned : unaccompanied
    > Wordsworth : William Wordsworth

    @laus_deo Thanks for the prompt! ��
    @writersnetwork Thank you! ���� (68, 12)
    #skp_writes #lighthouse #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 50w

    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 :)

    ornate filigrees- a metaphor for fences

    @writersbay #skp_writes #twosidesc #jinglec #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 51w

    | Pre-ab-sent |

    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

    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

    The repetition of the words "presence" and "absence" was intentional :/
    Thanks for the repost @writersnetwork (60, 10)
    @sangfroid_soul @laus_deo #skp_writes #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 55w


    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


    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 57w

    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 61w


    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.

    Username count: 71

    @writersnetwork Thanks ❤️ (41, 5) #wnnkrish
    @writersbay #skp_writes #time #picturec

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  • say_me_krish 63w

    Thank you so much for your kind reposts @mirakee and @writersnetwork ❤️

    This piece speaks about nature, with different perspectives and topics covered in each brevette (some also include topics about virtues)
    ----The poem is an Alliteration Brevette.

    Inspired by @artemiswrites ❤️
    @writersbay @laus_deo @sangfroid_soul
    #skp_writes #leaf #wallflowerc #wnnkrish

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    A l l u r e s
    B e s t o w s
    C a p t i v a t e s
    D e t e r i o r a t e s
    E m b r a c e s
    F a b r i c a t e s
    G l i s t e n s
    H o l d s
    I m b i b e s
    J u x t a p o s e s
    K e e p s
    L a u d s
    M a k e s
    N u r t u r e s
    O f f e r s
    P r o v o k e s
    Q u a l i f i e s
    R e f l e c t s
    S p r i n k l e s
    T i n t i n n a b u l a t e s
    U p h o l d s
    V a l u e s
    W i s h e s
    X a e r n s
    Y e e p s
    Z i p s

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | Sep 18, 2020.

  • say_me_krish 64w


    Beauty resides in the warmth
    of a mother's hug,
    brimming with unalloyed
    and unbridled affection.

    Beauty inhabits in
    those dark-complexioned faces,
    speaking novels of inner texture
    and outer reforms;
    melanin is just a hormone after all.

    Beauty is remarked in the eyes
    of those children in bruises and rags,
    yearning to be adored and cherished
    for just a small moment.

    Beauty is found in the efforts
    a cocoon puts in,
    to smash all curtailments
    and fly high like a butterfly;
    the master of hues.

    Beauty is contemplated in the body-
    obese or slender;
    realize that it stays
    till you meet the heavens,
    and you are beautiful.

    Beauty's beholded in
    the cool and solacing zephyrs,
    which speak when you're too busy
    weeping to lonely solitudes.

    Beauty is highlighted in
    small acts of simplicity,
    a pinch of humble thoughts
    and handfuls of selflessness
    reflects the kalon you have.

    Beauty is observed in
    the smallest drops of ink,
    which strives to suppress emotions
    by summoning death to itself.

    //Beauty not lies in what you see,
    it lies in how far and beauteous reach
    your sight is gifted with//

    ~S r i K r i s h n a  P  S | Sep 11, 2020

    Thanks for the third repost @writersnetwork ❤️
    @sangfroid_soul #skp_writes #beauty #wnnkrish

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  • say_me_krish 71w

    @writersnetwork 2nd one, thank you��
    @mirakee Thanks for this mind- boggling surprise!!
    My first ever pod����

    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)


    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//

    ~S r i K r i s h n a P S | July 29, 2020.
    #skp_writes #concretepoetry #wnnkrish

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    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 whis
    pered by the sweet
    watermelon lips...
    in the
    to sp
    eak a
    lot to
    me, f
    or th
    eir e
    to m
    eet t
    ms ti
    ght t
    es m
    g me
    my sa
    ga, a lor
    n one fro
    m my life..
    The paved asphalt roads
    now seem more radiant like a wide chain of pearls arranged close to each other. Footpaths are mere rows of gardens having scenic views with leaves having dewdrops and weeds seemingly merrier. Every sight is rejoicing except the mere fact that towns aren't completely personifying the beauty of the sight and the aura of the nature.

  • say_me_krish 72w

    | After my body leaves |

    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

    Wow!!! What a surprise!!! ��
    @writersnetwork Thank you for the first repost��
    #skp_writes #cees_memo_chall #wnnkrish

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