Miraquill
They say that words hurt
Na there's something that hurts more
It's the actions
©girlywriter
girlywriter
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girlywriter
32w
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girlywriter
34w
I lost my account from Ma phone, I think precisely one month ago. I really found it difficult to recover it. Its after so long now that I could recover it. Thank god I got this back, will be posting soon.....
©girlywriter -
girlywriter
40w
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Context: far in the future rain stops for a while, and this talk is between the rain and his soul mate 'the soil'. Read this melancholic talk of soil to the rain.
Inscruplously I have been waiting
To rejenuvate my soul.
Now that it's been long,
since you approached me.
Where have you gone,
Living me here.
Gone were the days!
when you visited;
when we were in conjuction;
The interval between us;
even for a small time,
dried me up.
The time we met,
You came in as drops,
nudged me with ease:
and then we danced,
with all our energy.
It's prolonged,
I'm no more feeling alive,
I'm in my death bed,
a small touch of you
would bring me back.
Where are you,
My soulmate,
Come,
Embrace,
Me,
With love.
#rain #soil #future #miraquili #writersnetwork #writersbay #romanticizec
@miraquili @writersnetwork @writersbayWhere are you,
My soulmate,
Come,
Embrace,
Me,
With love.
©girlywriter -
girlywriter
40w
Let the thoughts buried in, come out as flames to kill the darkness around.
©girlywriter -
Forget the blue's,
Forgive the red's
©girlywriter -
_artment
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girlywriter
46w
ALIVE
Being alive is the greatest thing to be grateful for
©girlywriter -
girlywriter
46w
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So let's just move into the story fast, sorry for making you wait till today....So this story is told in different ways. I've read about it a little bit from various sources and I would like to just share it in here
Long ago there was a town, which followed a strange custom of branding the forehead of a person with the name of the thing they stole. In that town there lived a young poor boy. Once he was so hungry that he stole a sheep to sell it, so that he could get money. On his way to the market he get's caught and as is the strange custom he is branded with S from the word sheep to make other's aware that he is the kid who stole the sheep. After this he get's humiliated and he was out casted from the society. Since he had no one around to whom he can talk to, he accompanies the sheep and starts to feel more connected with them than with humans.
Year's later a child from the same town saw this boy who by then grow into an old. The child bewildered by the happiness in his face with those sheep ask his grandmother who is that old man. His grandmother whose memory had faded with time, thought for a moment and replied that she didn't know him in person, but in her time he was called a Saint and that is why the letter 'S' is imprinted in his forehead. Saint the person close to god!!!
Thus as said what society says is not the matter, what matters is your dreams..... Go conquer them
#sheeptheif #saint"SOCIETIES OPINION DOESN'T MATTER, WHAT MATTERS IS YOUR HARDWORK"
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girlywriter
46w
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If you want to know the story do comment, I'll update it tomorrow. Wish you all a good evening �� I'm here preparing for my exams but then I came across this thoughts and thought to just share it
#sheepthief #saint" SOCIETIES OPINION DOESN'T MATTER
WHAT MATTERS IS YOUR HARDWORK"
-have you heard about the story of the sheep thief who went on to be called as " the saint"
©girlywriter -
girlywriter
47w
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Recently I read a novel called "Brida" written by the Brazilian novelist Paulo Coelho. Novel's always fascinated me, this too opened the doors of a magical world. Coelho's novels in general brings in a lot of positive vibe. If you haven't read this novel yet you should indeed try it.
Magic is something that we often love to know as it fascinates us in one way or the other. The biggest of the biggest magic as many say is love. Brida follows a journey of a 21 years old girl named `Brida'who wishes to open the door of the magical world. It crosses through all aspects of her life from her parents, tutors, to her soulmates. The novel has some magnificent movements, that brings in a lot of imagery into our minds.
Comment if any of you've readed and share your experiencesBRIDA
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wordsturnedscars
43w
VIBGYOR
Her purse was violet,
Her gown an indigo satin,
Her eyes deep blues like the ocean,
Her diet green and vegetarian,
Her hair yellow, shimmering and thick,
The orange juice she drank
Coating her lips, full and red.
She was indeed,
A blend of the seven colours,
Pure white, full of innocence and tranquility,
Which can be tainted by none... -
cherishlife
49w
# Positive Vibes
At times...
When you have all doors of happiness closed,
When you feel the pain of your wounded heart,
When you find no means of paths to move on,
When you stand struck in the mid of struggles,
When you find unable to stop your tears,
When you make out hard to breathe
And
When you are Totally BROKEN..
REMEMBER
You are still ALIVE,
Which means you Still have the Chance to do something,
To do something for a Better Tomorrow
So
NEVER LOSE HOPE.
©cherishlife -
daffodilpearlzz
50w
B O W O F P O E T R Y
~ villanelles are ianthine vagabonds ~
As the oars of violet ink
meets the solitude of paper,
eleutheromania of poetry
unfurls its allegories and
streams steadily on the ocean
within the coronary arteries
of a desolated heart.
Dim lights of the lantern
dangled on its chambers
comes out through
the glass shards which
has undergone annealing
over the years of melancholy.
The ink, violet in color becomes
the vagabonds who desperately
aspires to peregrinate
through the serene of
a wounded poet's hireath
for a drowse on the beds
of her abnegated tercets.
~ paper soaked in velvety indigo ink ~
The eudaimonia of a vintage paper
as it is soused in the fragrance
of dried indigo turns
the verses engraved
on its fine surface into
a peripatetic solution of poetry.
It wanders betwixt
the loneliness of similes
and alacrity of metaphors,
turns the sunset horizon of her mind
into a cyan green epitome of bravery.
It diffuses with the tears
oozing from the moon-lit night
in her paradise and turns
the wheel of phantoms
to the effervescent charm
hidden in the cage built by
a string of twinkling stars.
~ turquoise blue hyperboles ~
Poetry opulently resides
within some hyperboles and
sauntered on the pathways
of fervours for freedom, turning
its pink skies into blue flora.
Megalomania of blue ink
in the galaxies of calligraphy
symbolizes the hyperboles
riding over the metaphors
to not let the wings of poesy
realize the ardour in itself.
Poet owns the poetry,
and its wings are caged
in those capillaries where
blue ink still remain.
Blue, the color which adultered
every shade of compassion
melting from a poet's secrets.
~ chartreuse green of poetic physics ~
As the doors open into
a world of palpitations,
where lavenders bloom in yellow,
roses in blue and snowdrops
bloom in creamy green,
poetry gets hallucinated, with
its lines written down
in chartreuse green color ink.
Whilst maple green is a shade
of ink brewed from the fervours
of tawny brown autumn leaves
whose twigs turn into a rhyme
scheme of the poet's lub-dubs.
Green, becomes the drought
in the cores of poetry as it is
an itinerant seeking freedom.
Camaraderie of poetries colors
it with a rusty shade of brown too.
~ tangerine yellow of paper ~
From the sunset serene's horizon
to the reflections of its ethereal rays
on the crests and troughs of lakes,
stories mend walls between
each other's despondency
within the corpus callosum.
I filter the ocean and this yellow,
drips into the new bottle of ink.
I fill the tanks of my pen
with this yellow and it turns
green in color as it dances
with the tune of blue hyperboles.
Paper, but turns dusty yellow
with the brusies of memories
and crinkles of age injuring
its fresh new white surfaces.
No more does yellow become
a shade of death which encases
past in its resevoirs in brain,
it becomes poetry in the chambers
of a stained white paper.
~ saffron pearls dipped in nostalgia ~
"Saffearls" dipped in
incandescent nostalgia
turns life into a wheel which
ceases somewhere on the seashores
of cheerful memories on a lane
where the giggles of young
children resonated with
the vibrations of these
saffron beads on a poet's
necklace hung in solace.
Squeezing those beads within
the time machine, the pulp turns
into a reddish orange demitasse
of coffee-like juice which drizzles
on paper and delicate poetry
vouchsafed within the hearts
of orange pearls themselves.
~ crimson linings of grey clouds ~
Loading a paintbrush with
scarlet red shades of oil colors,
a poetry refilled its pen with
conundrums; murdering
the metaphors in red colored ink
poetry became a repenting
killer whose titles became
the symptoms of an undiagnosed
auto-immune disorder.
Lining the clouds with
denuoements of war between
sympathy and joy, the fountain
pen turned the clouds into
a jewellery which poetry
hung proudly on its ears.
Galloping on the fluffy clouds
the poet journeyed away
from the oceans of ardours
penned in crimson red,
by the fates of poetry itself.
©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
Tue 8 June 2021
PS : "Saffearl" refers to saffron pearl. -
daffodilpearlzz
49w
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~ S U M M E R C I N Q U A I N ~
Hireath
Under the shades
Of an oak tree, summer
Rests in golden yellow linen
Therein.
Poems
Ooze from its leaves
As old calligraphy
Mend verses of saffron zeal of
Eons.
Rainbows
Bow down in pride
From crimson till purple
To weave in laughter with sorrows
Not pain.
©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
Mon 14 June 2021
Image credits to the original owner
Here's a small one for #wov1
#rainbow was an accident. I wrote a poem and then saw it was mirakee's challenge XD @anirockz7 Here's a tag for you :) Thank you for the like and repost WN ♡ EC ��
My submissions for "The week of verses" #wov_daffs.
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daffodilpearlzz
48w
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~ OF PAIN AND PETRICHOR ~
Parallelogram
of existence, where I'm
a mere dark shadow
I presume, intrigue,
I explore and discover
repeated stories
Stories of sorrows
As scars on their pathways
Resembling with mine.
Tears become rain,
pain becomes the petrichor
on our diaries.
Like rhyming words of poem,
Pain repeats as syllables.
©daffodilpearlzz ~ Bhavya
Thu 17 June 2021
Image credits to the original owner
My submissions to "The Week of Verses" #wov_daffs
Thank you for the like WN (^^♪
@anshika_winks here you go :)) #wov4 #multiverse
EC♡♡.
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T I M E
I stand on stage when the curtains open
masked with make up of " Time."
The auditorium was packed.
The first row was reserved
for my past,
The second row reserved
for my present,
The remaining rows
for my future.
My thoughts take me to the past
I get lost and wander into invisible dots
which could not be connected correctly,
The first row of audience...
"The past"
gave a loud applause and loud remarks
who remember my shortcomings
eagerly showing their presence.
I have to keep moving
My mask of the past replaced with present
I hear the applause from the second row
"My present" who
recognised me and I faced
their applause with confidence.
I try to remove the mask,
the make up,
the heavy costume and stand there
in simple attire travelling in the "now"
the rest of the audience
accepted me,
my real self,
my real face
and gave a standing ovation for
my simplicity
and the journey which
took the rocky route of life
with boulders
And blunders
blinding the way.
This is me
Standing here now
Is the truth which they witness
So they appreciated my role.
"TIME" is wonderful
in connecting the dots
with courage and confidence
to feel the cheers.
©sproutedseeds
15.05.21 -
miraquill
53w
Read MoreThe word "mask" has more than one meaning. Here we are mentioning three of them:
1. A piece of cloth that you wear over all or part of your face to protect you from germs or harmful substances.
2. Not showing real feelings or character.
3. Preventing people from noticing or recognizing something.
--Today, write a creative piece using the word mask carrying one of the above meanings.--
Tag with #mask and share.
#wodMask
What's the first word that comes to your mind when you hear mask? Mention it in the comments below.
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fromwitchpen
54w
Read MoreA Journey To Find The Lost Me .
//Some toodle-oos are destined to be said en route to find yourself//
Leaving my comfort zone,
those croissanted-mornings and blankets of warmth . I peregrinated on the spinous hours of that ancient horologe .
/Some journeys are meant to be taken without luggages when your pockets are filled with utmost optimism and faith in your soul/
• Wilted sunsets to light up those twilight coated blind eyes to understand the ifs and buts of existence and destruction.
• Cassettes of evolution to immaculate those narrow minded souls as change is much needed.
• Maroon hues of patience to disperse blue hues of despondency to paint my colorless life with tints and shades of tranquility.
• Stalwart sculptures kneaded with altruism to vanquish every difficulty on the path of salvation from darkness of nights.
• Puffs of melancholy as grief is also a part of our life without which we are incomplete.
//My breathe were wreathe with combers of benignity and aspiration to touch the jugular vein of the lost me even if that mean to crush my bones by falling again and again in the deep chasm of pessimistic winds I rose to reach my destination//
And as I engulfed the scent of my sweat and blood . It felt like I conquered every dark second of my life .
/My pulse broke mayhem betwixt day and night/
_____________________________
Toodle-oos - goodbyes
En route- during the course of a journey; on the way.
Croissanted-mornings- croissant filled means mornings with fresh breakfast .
#journeyI adorned my scars with stars
and like a wayfarer ambled
to the journey of finding my
bits and pieces.
©fromwitchpen -
miraquill
54w
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Have you ever travelled alone? For today's challenge imagine yourself travelling alone to a destination. Talk about things you are carrying as luggage, your destination, your emotions on the way, your anticipation to reach, the things you can see and hear around you, etc.
--Today, write a creative piece about a journey.--
Tag with #journey and share.
#wodJourney
When did you last travel to someplace?
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writer_namz
68w
Read MoreDoes the pen of a writer speak?
Find out in its own words.
#writerspenpersonifiedThe Writer's Pen
I am the Writer's Pen,
Ready to write all his thoughts,
But he always keeps me waiting,
Because he thinks a lot.
He gathers all his thoughts,
His imaginations have no end,
But to sum up all of them together,
He runs out his wits end.
He is very good at vocabulary,
But can't rhyme his words well,
He is fluent in English,
But can't find words to express.
Sometimes, he writes his heart out,
But in the end strikes them all off,
Sometimes his eyes well up with tears,
But he can't express them in words.
He talks with me all day,
And even cries out with great sorrow,
But I cannot comfort him,
Because I have no ability to do so.
I have seen his struggle all through these years,
His pain and suffering has made me shut my ears,
His actions strike through me like a sword,
But I can't speak a word.
Sometimes I want to disown my master,
And become the Pen of a school master,
But then I would miss all the beautiful memories that I made,
With my loving master.
The grief is heavy,
But the delight is lovely,
Being my master's only,
With him forever, closely.
©writer_namz
