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  • inara__ 25w

    The Old Guitarist is an oil painting by Pablo Picasso, which he created in late 1903 and early 1904. It depicts an elderly musician, a blind, haggard man with threadbare clothing, who is weakly hunched over his guitar while playing in the streets of Barcelona, Spain.
    Source: google.


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    Plucking penury petal, putative Picasso painted palpable percepts. Paper promulgated provoking prevalent prerogatives. Prevailing people poured plaudits palpitating per penitent.


  • inara__ 25w

    Dear Sakshi di,

    This might be quite unpredicted but it is what it is xD please bear with it. I don't know where to start with, but if I reminisce about the first post I read here, genuinely, was your submission to the 'T-shirt prompt' on water. I commented something and you replied, "Thanks alot lady with beautiful bangs". Before that I thought mirakee was just an app where we write and read, but since then I came to know that it's not just an 'app' it's home for writers where we make friends and live blithely. You seemed utterly sweet, thereafter I became your constant reader. Reading you felt blissful and it still feels. When I read your post about 'chuzo' I really felt sad but also ferreted out that you're not only sweet, but kind hearted too. I love how your newfangled thoughts make this place more dynamic, may it be because of your write-ups, your appeal to tag you on the posts we want you to read, 'sakask' or the challenges you host ! You're my idol. I really feel low when my friends here leave. But then, I ponder, "Chaheti, it's not even a year since you joined this platform, and you're becoming sad ?" and then I think about you. How strong you've been, almost 4 years (I guess) Like from the starting ?! You must've had sundry friends here too. Many of them left, some are still here but they don't write, right ? And you, you're still here, you still write and you will always be here cause you write for yourself . You interact with newbies and that stimulates me to stay here, always. You're a fillip to many novice writers here, like you were to me. And you still are. We haven't talked much but still everytime we've talked, it was a cachet to me. Your backgrounds, captions and obviously words always have my and everyone's heart. Your thought provoking posts are doses of humanity to us. The way you pour your colossal musings in ample words, no one can ever do. No one can ever be like you ! You're actually a cup of poetry, from which we sip drenches of ethics. You're like an elder sister to me, who clears all my queries when I feel dippy. Not gonna rankle you more :P so yes, THANK YOU SAKSHI DI, FOR BEING THERE, ALWAYS !

    - Your chirpy bird,

    @my_cup_of_poetry ❤ (Using red heart after ages :p)


    Ps. If you've read her, you know the references below very well. :D

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    Audacious she is,
    as she opens
    the door for
    Plath and pules
    the tears of
    locutuons on
    the vellum.

    Valorous she is,
    as she inks when
    Bukowski breaks
    out through her
    skin and she
    seams the
    lesion boldly.

    Indomitable she
    is, as she reads
    the Oedipus
    twice without
    despising the

    Yes, she's our
    muse or goddess
    for, she has the
    fortitude to bring
    patriarchy to an


  • inara__ 25w

    Istg I'm not a biology student. XD


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    My slain heart still throbs for you.

    I often visit my heart, or the abandoned domicile. I enter with poxy memories that daubed me on the day you vamoosed. I flow through vena cava to the right atrium, ineptitude delimits my solicitude for I wasn't there when you breathed last. My legs palpitate and I strive to go back, but the valve nudges me to glide further and I enter the right ventricle. There, I recall that you didn't perish alone, you had our foetus inside you. My soul cries, cries so hard that the septum becomes hysterical. I stifle and try to go back but another valve propels me to proceed further and fortunately the pulmonary arteries chuck me out. I cowp over the lungs, the yard where our love proliferated, for, you ceased my smoking and planted pink roses of ecstasy there. The roses beseech me to continue this hike. Pulmonary veins grab my hand and make me set my foot in the left atrium. Merry old moments outflank me and I hurtle ahead. The valve opens the door for me to enter the left ventricle. Pantingly I notice the cradle we bought. Tears fall off my eyes as sweat budges through my forehead. I can't go backwards so I trudge ahead plunging the valve but aorta splits and allocates me into all the parts of my inert body.


  • inara__ 25w

    Wanna pass through my descrete heart ?
    Make sure you're not from the human cart.
    for the heart is, an amalgam of different hues,
    a whimsical rainbow perhaps. An arc of seven
    seraphic colors. As one sets foot in the arcuate,
    Red will make a velvety carpet, with delirium,
    elan 'n redemption to fáilte the astray day tripper.
    Orange will keek from the tinges of scarlet and amber,
    with rousing frolicsomeness akin to a toddler.
    Yellow will pivot the spotlight of sunshine on the
    footsteps to vouchsafe mellow musings and sagacity.
    Green will gleam, for it is the middle child, squandering
    h(/w)ealth and prolificacy with tranquility and parity.
    Blue will make you cogitate over the unknown, for it ent
    -etes with reverence and sanctitude of skies and seas.
    Indigo will sedate for it is a parabolic bridge between
    finite and infinite. Make sure you don't drown between.
    Violet will ignite your fascination by enveloping you with
    lavender quilt. Sometimes you'll feel the coldness of woe
    But most of the times you'll deal with the warmth of piety.
    Wanna pass through my descrete heart ?
    Make sure you're not from the human cart,
    as the marks humans leave are too often scars.

    #smk_avaap_ch (prompt no. 5)
    #list #lavenderc

    How can someone write this lame ?!

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    The marks humans leave are too often scars.

    - Augustus Waters (TFIOS)

  • inara__ 26w


    Completely lame and definitely gonna delete this !

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    Mirror mirror on the wall,
    will my tone decide the
    place of my tombstone ?

    I see her smiling through the mirror,
    with a futile smile which is no more alive.
    A smile which perished when she was
    juvenile. She scratches her countenance
    when she recalls all the times she was
    tyrannized for her dusky complexion.

    She takes out fairness cream from the
    bag and applies a coin size lump callously
    when she harks back to the 7 year old her
    and ruminates how her aunt exhorted
    her to stand at the corner during the family
    photoshoot and how she sobbed the
    whole night while all the cousins were making
    whoopee. The mirror saw her crying.
    That day. And is still watching her.
    Crying. Alone. Quietly.

    She takes out fairness cream from the
    bag and applies another lump callously
    when she harks back to the 16 year old
    her and ruminates how her friends chiacked
    her when she invited them to her birthday,
    even her best friend laughed with everyone
    and how she'd cut the cake unchaperoned in
    front of the mirror. The mirror saw her crying.
    That day. And is still watching her.
    Crying. Alone. Quietly.

    She takes out fairness cream from the
    bag and applies another lump callously
    when she harks back to the 28 year old
    her and ruminates how her man felt
    ashamed to take her out and asked her
    to stay home. The mirror saw her crying.
    That day. And is still watching her.
    Crying. Alone. Quietly.

    I see her smiling through the mirror,
    thinking if her corpse will be buried
    along with other corpses or in the
    corner, alone ?

  • inara__ 26w

    @writersnetwork 26 mins, not bad. XD Thanks reyyyy��


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    Yes, we are fibsters, for, we
    dissemble our own selves.

    We often conceal our
    cicatrices under the ink.
    For, we know, the mobs
    aren't proficient enough
    to swallow the unnerving
    melancholies we schlep.

    We often use words as
    threads and ink as needle
    to sew our torn hearts. For,
    we know, the crumbled red
    pieces are corpulent enough
    to tumble down on wights.

    We often wail discretely in
    darkness and smirk fatuously
    in luminance. For, we know,
    the pandemonium would be
    cacophonus enough to
    turn sane lugholes deaf.

    We often wear the cloak of
    decency and cravenness.
    But deep down, we know, we
    are warriors, with pen as a sword
    and paper as a shield, fighiting
    the oblivious world with fortitude.


  • inara__ 27w

    Looks spooky !


    I hope you made tha same creepy face while reposting. XD
    Thank you, WN !! ✨

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    I abhor my fizzog


    whensoever i ca
    tch a sight of me, in the
    the mirror, my visages get a
    feeling of monac hopsis
    My eyes ogle at themse
    lves, for th ey gauged without pe
    nsive hypothesis. My brows furrow as they
    toppled due to melancholy and couldn't stop
    the perspiration along my forehead. My bloate
    d snoot deflates for it poked in ext rinsic t maw becomes taciturn when it
    recalls all the times it blabbered absurdly.
    I abhor m y miens for they're not mine.
    I abhor m y congruence for it be
    guiled me. I abhor my fizzog for
    it denuded my haute
    ur but still let's dissimulate t
    he postulations a n d
    s m i l e.


  • inara__ 27w

    I try writing fairytales,
    but the ink deceives my pen.

    @sanyaaaa Here you go !! Waiting for yours.


    Thank you for the repost, flibbertigibbety WN !! ✨

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    Duping fairytales

    When grand duke tried
    to fit the glass slipper
    in my nonpareil tootsie,
    the slipper double crossed
    me, it was misfit
    just like my destiny.

    When I ran out of leather,
    I saw no new pair of
    shoes on the table,
    no elves crafting them.
    everything was abysmal
    just like my fate.

    When my ball plunged,
    down the river, my
    foraging eyes couldn't
    descry a glaucous, vile frog.
    The amphibian didn't appear
    just like my ecstasy.

    When the stepmother sent
    us into the forests, the
    crepuscular forests didn't have
    a house made of sweets, the
    house was veiled with utter murk
    just like my smile veils the woe.

    When I got pricked by the
    spindle, the good fairies
    didn't make another
    spell to mollify the
    maleficent curse. So, I
    slept for more than a century
    and never woke up,
    just like my good spirits. (still asleep)

    When the stepmom
    chucked me, into the
    woods, the covert cottage
    of the dwarfs was left unseen.
    I ate the poisonous apple
    and laid there. No! Not in
    the crystal coffin, but down
    on the turf. Neither the
    dwarfs came nor the
    Prince Charming,
    just like happy endings
    never ensued.

    And as usual,
    my fairytale was left aborted.

  • inara__ 28w

    The Archangels correspond to days of week and they are Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, Raphael, Selephiel, Jegudiel and Barchiel with their seven heavenly virtues countering the seven deadly sins of the Seven Princes of hell- Mammon, Blephegor, Asmodeus, Lucifer, Bleezebub, Leviathan and Satan.

    A mess lol.

    Wrote something like this long back !!
    So, old me inspired me to write this. Though not sure about it !

    #warsinsidec #alien

    Ayeeee WN, thank you for the repost !! ✨ After ages !!

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    Wars inside me

    On Sunday, Mammon endeavours to pervade greed in my mind, but
    Michael combats the avarice with munificence.

    On Monday, Blephegor strives for triumph of sloth, but
    Gabriel thwarts the accidie with diligence.

    On Tuesday, Asmodeus busts a gut for lust, but
    Uriel defies the lechery with chastity.

    On Wednesday, Lucifer moils for conquest of pride, but
    Raphael salvages the wits from hubris with humility.

    On Thursday, Bleezebub flies to flag off gluttony, but
    Selephiel tackles the fly of gulosity with temperance.

    On Friday, Leviathan opens hellmouth to vitalize envy, but
    Jegudiel lacerates the covet bazoo with lenience.

    On Saturday, Satan dispatches storms of wrath, but
    Barachiel trounces the chargin with forbearance.

    Archangels alienate the princes of hell so acutely,
    that inevitably they never come back in retaliation.

  • inara__ 28w

    We got him when I was 11 and he was barely 6 days old.
    I remember hallooing 'Shishi' in the morning to take him for a walk before getting ready for school. The tranquilizing air felt more vigorous with him. Sometimes gripping a leash that was peed on felt spooky but the notorious grin he gave after was spectacular. I never realized three quarters of an hour passed so swiftly untill mumma belowed my name. He used to wait for me, like a lover does for their soulmate. When the clock struck 2 in the noon, he, listening to my school bus's sound used to fete me by woofing aloud, licking my feet and wagging his tail. Being a child I couldn't make a trailblazing house for him, but arranged some hay and straws in a box. He was long haired and as furry as a cotton ball. One could play with him leaving all his stress and work aside. Days passed and he became hoary. One cruel day, when I returned from the school, I didn't hear his whoops and hollers. Numbness surrounded me with ghastly screeches. Ruthless quietus took away my heart's segment. My spirit still trembles when someone gets a new pet.
    And guess what, I wasn't mature enough to capture even a single picture with/of him.


    Wrote it in one go, my hands shivered and thoughts choked.
    @sanyaaaa I'm sorry for the disappointment.

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    Image not available.