The title is taken from the song , memories by maroon 5. _____________
Soliciting soothe or sliding off from the jalousie and sprigs of vexatious life's episodes. I baked cashmere sweaters and serapes for my loved ones.
Friendship, This word was unfathomable for me but after setting foot into this chock-a-block of colors (miraquill) and benevolence I stumbled on many comely hearts and glimmering diamonds.
Scarcely any, are those whom my heart esteems and idolize and a hue of camaraderie can be felt with them. Part of and few are those who were there with every fluctuation of my vicissitudes. They armoured my unsubstantial and wobbly thoughts and fulgurated my mythical and mystical fears with warmth and rapport. An accord of serenity and propinquity is also burgeoning with them.
A soupçon of these tinctures and the book of my existence one or two has known and they are the most idiotic and idyllic homosapiens. Co-conspirators, musketeers and a bona fide interrelatedness is what expound them as my heartbeats.
They are buddies the ones who knows how to hotchpotch someone's sorrows and fuel a soul with optimism and blithe.
#vil_witch Phew, My third villanelle after a long time. Thanks for supporting :) I'm sorry for not responding to your tags . Take care . #start --------
Her eyes look like unheard stories, the clouds go berserk while searching for the heaven betwixt her orbs. Fire and brimstones, what her laugh shredded upon the vague veranda of vamoosed verses. They attired the guffaws of perdition with streetlights and counterfeit similes. I've lived betwixt her poetries she never coiled the pandemonium of turnpike troubadours in lecherous ignis fatuus which gurgle out phantasm on the grief-stricken walls manipulating the doldrums kept inside a jar of clemency. I flapped my wings
She an ample-apple of fuliginous stardust nurturing my eensy soul with fierce-flowers and compassion evoking a euphoric bedlam beside my lungs
They, smoked evils, deaths, knives, blood, huckery hymns and my unfeigned condolences to her unwavering beauty
I grilled her heart on wilted orchids they coughed out blood and turned to fragrant roses
She cursed my existence I stabbed her words she blamed my facade I chopped off her name She taunted our telepathy but then her pain subsided and I saw her crying while writing a villanelle
I snatched away her coal orbs. But blindly she guided the rhymes and I tip-toed to keek that tear she sobbed before taking the last breath
~ I'm that lonely word she forgot to write in that villanelle before she cwtched quietude.
/(Bard)iche virtuoso/ I was a poet: trahison des clercs
I never counted stars as they burn the house of dusk manipulating the daydreams to fell in love with ephialtes I'm a drunkard cursing the flashbacks and photographs of augur. I'm depicting the future with threads of past time I'm a bardic barque whose debris are being stepped by mariners as flotsam unable to fathom; a prolix to rejig the spaces and bardiches into poems which are hard to gulp and not-that-easy to cognize the roads I build with black and white images They left They left one by one two to four and in thirty days where I tasted the three sixty fifth rotten flesh of forevers
Nobody stayed the home to my soul the love of my life the salted-buttery elflocks of my grandma the last wish I made while celebrating my 11th birthday the guy who keeked through the orifice of fornication the bullets of prophecies the matinee to masquerade happiness
howbeit, I was a poet
who is a poet ?
one day my heart asked I was discombobulated I read books, watched movies I kept being inquisitive But steadily instead of getting an answer
I started a war betwixt my heart and mind,
A virtuoso bard , bardiche and bandit named life snuff the cigars of chivalry and puff out the intumescent verses of ruination
I'm partaking in sighs, cries, thwacks, flames, relics and coal-camphor of the pits of villainy
_ I'm not guilty of the trahison des clercs I caged, by trading my poetic pale-flower. I'm a cobblestone of perfidy.
@writersnetwork thanks team for the support and encouragement you always showered on me *-*
Thank you everyone! Pardon me for not reading you all from past a month I guess, life turned hectic and I feel suffocated here but I can't leave this place . I'm trying my best to read like I used to before. I sucks due to constant headaches and emotional breakdowns. I'm trying to cope up with this all to be strong to fight and to again respire spells of love on you all. Hope you all understand my situation :-) thank you so much for being here . It somewhere breaks my heart that many left and very few are here those whom I know. And the beautiful new users here, my name is Sanam no need to call me Ma'am. I'm a learner like you all I'm not someone who is an actual writer. Please be normal. Formalities scares me , much love <3
Blah. Idk what this nasha is . Something new I tried . #end
As I have seen many of you didn't got the actual point in this post pardon my negligence let me elaborate it
The first verse is about wine how it touches the throat what we feel even the colada feels a piece of trash in front of it till we puke it out in dustbins and it burn into areas surrounded with blood death and hearses . (The taste of wine is like the wet sand after rain)
Second verse states that: I have talked about few girls as periwinkles its like wine sex and love or pain. So yeah, they walked in a ballroom trying to look as elegant as this is what erupts their synchondrosis joint. Like a categorized clichè girl. Fueling their dresses with bra cups, underarms and hips all ready and cleaned up and at that time the pimples when start pirouetting on their skin many stares which are eerie make them loose the last gum of their mouth as they bump with any man and he use her on his dashboard cupboard and then she again bloom in mudpots but the end is always pain and pain. (It means the suburbs and (bra) cups are carved with foolish people's gaze)
Last verse is about the themeparks the childhood we have lived and with time we killed it with our own desires its all cold now unfathomable and bizarre life filled with bewildered gossamers and confusions . (I gulped in love to feel the pain) Hope this helps :)
Daubed lip-rouge, one of her mother's red shawl she wore as a sari rigidifying her blouse to get a deep neck as the line which appears betwixt her mother's breast always made her curious being unknown of her surroundings she put her lips under her teeth orbs up to give a winsome look
Her childishness captured the eyes of her dadi descrying this all she checked the time sun was starting to set she stormed inside her room tore her dreams and said "You are her daughter, that woman's how could I think you will be different from her she was a prostitute and so are you, This sunset is such a bizzare old man who once stripped off her truth as she danced and abutted death at this time so are you trying to be her at this tick of clock, This sunset is a malison"
/And the sunset under the kef of myths mourning on human's mindsets/
Green: One word to 24% matching text. Yellow: 25-49% matching text. Orange: 50-74% matching text. Red: 75-100% matching text Blue: No plagiarism. ~ according to Turnitin (an Internet-based plagiarism detection service)
/What is plagiarism in your eyes ? Is it that your few words can be found beautifying someone else poem ? Plagiarism isn't about words , concept or corresponding to nature.
~If the words you use like let me give my example a word 'cwtch' many of us write. But I know hundreds of users here got to know about this word from me. And what about me? I also got to know about this word from a vocab page at Instagram. So can I say that these people who started using this word in their write ups that I own this word and you are copying me? No, I can not cause I'm not the one who actually invented this word.
~If your concept is somehow same after reading someone later then he is a plagiarizer but if you read the same concept written before you wrote then you aren't a plagiarizer. Is it so? Concepts can be same but the way of expression can vary. This is not plagiarism.
~sky is beautiful. You can read this line almost everywhere. This is a natural thing which no one can pilagirize. _
Yes, if your exact words are being used by someone without giving you credits. This is called plagiarism. As the miraquilleans rather than posting this or warning people contact with Carolyn Ma'am or send a mail to miraquill with proofs. They will surely look into this matter. I'm saying this all cause I have done a very big mistake by myself here a few months ago by disturbing the peace of miraquill and posting posts about plagiarism. But, I learned after such experience "to not to show anger be peaceful" Notify the admins/
PS- People plagiarize the best ones be proud of yourself and they plagiarized you, you didn't so let them take stress, be happy!
Twice, thrice and toto-frice? I consolidated visionaries and pander to picturesque paper planes my no-muse-phantasm perspired a subfusc syllabic synchronization of thoughts and vexatious turmoil trespassing the point of my lifeless nefarious-nib,
Using a bleaching-burner I shan't efface eulogia which I traveled by my wings, so-called libraries and when I relish that tangy sourdough of inked-journals I morph into so autumnal-auburn-ashes
I have travelled on paper-palimpsests trailing towards the manuscripts meandering on streams of solitude selecting a succored-sauntering synecdoche and bled bonfires to those dark and doused palabras
A safari to hunt the seraph of poetries or a globetrotting to gleam glossaries I've smouldered suffixes and massacred mutilated poetries.
(As I saw in the comments not many people got the actual point of this poem let me give you all a summary about this, This is a poem about a quill which sum up the visionaries to indulge and carve Paper planes through fantasy and trespass through the turmoil of its bewildering sync of thoughts and life which are odious to its nib it will die inside a bleaching-burner will keep writing itself eulogies will travel the hidden libraries and will taste that sour journal of those ole journals it will change into autumn then will be auburn ashes. It will travel on palimpsests, manuscripts, solitude, will succour the selected synecdoche by sauntering on them and will bleed fire to dead words. Whether to hunt the poetries or to travel through the world of glossaries it'll burn the suffixes and maimed poems. Hope this help you all)