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  • lady_midnight 4w

    You turned me into poetry, swirling in your cup of tea, recited in your sighs; bereft of words, except for my name rolling off your tongue.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 22w

    When autumn meets winter

    From fallen leaves to icy lanes, it's been a month. We don't talk that often, but there is your voice lingering in my head, always in open-ended arguments. You still remember the color of my eyes, or the sound of my laughter, and I still remember how satirical you are.

    Those icy lanes turn into winter burrows and our memories resemble the foggy windows of your home. Cold winds whisper déjà vu and for a moment you find the warmth my name sparked in your heart.

    And after every clash of winter and fall, the sandcastle of memories drown a little and we forget each other; lingering like an old song without lyrics but watching the same stars, some miles and decisions apart.

    Someday, you'll come across a poetry, metaphorically becoming me, a girl you used to know and I'll give you away, in stories yet to be told.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 25w

    Nine Novembers Later

    I'm standing at your door with that book in my hand, carrying stories from places I've ever called home. I can't help but wonder, if your eyes will recognize what I couldn't say?

    I'm taken back novembers ago, with a box of decisions and unopened letters scattered in my room with everything else obscured by a sunset in autumn.

    I'm taken back novembers ago, with smiles tucked away in those silent walks and insincere jokes. Goodbyes came soon enough, and you left without saying too much. Hope crashed and died and no eulogy could make up for it.

    I'm taken back Novembers ago, where no promises were made and our hearts glistened in poetry and fall. We were strangers, weaving nostalgia from deja vu.

    Nine novembers later, standing at your door, and I'm still the girl who is afraid to love. Isn't it poetic?

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 25w

    Of browns and greys

    The canopy of innocence, laughter and familiarity was lost somewhere in those autumn leaves bidding adieu to bittersweet memories. We watch the embers die and lay bare in darkness, holding on to the warmth of sadness as the realization of being far away shrieks quietly.

    It was the month of poetic breeze, softly singing it's dark lullabies.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 44w

    My appetite for petty words had died few years ago, when rose colored glasses were trending and reality was a highway taken by few. Since then, half written love letters lay naked on the table, covered in dust bites, a courtesy of time.

    Phrases and their meanings have become a conspiracy theory, waiting to be unraveled and consumed. My forks and knives had started to rust; if not for those cooked verses, I'd have starved.

    I have dishonest tales, bound in time, lying around somewhere in my mind's shore. The clock is ticking, tauntingly, as I stare at my wrinkled hands desperate to feel the petite pen's warmth. Sheets are smooth as sand, and the words are crashing like lonely waves coming home.

    ©lady_midnight

    Won't make much sense :/

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    When I'm gone,
    Turned to ashes and dust,
    And the wind picks up rhymes,
    Trapped in my bones,
    Remember the night,
    I learnt to fly,
    And gave symphony to poetries,
    Forgotten in time.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 48w

    Barefoot Secrets

    I've been afraid of dying with unheard stories running rampant in my head and my lips a withered bloom, playing a garland to my death. I dip a pen in the murk stirring in my heart, barely alive.

    I've been afraid of turning into a shadow like my past, with hope becoming an obscurity. Desperation turns into a forlorn sigh as the page breathes one last time.

    I find myself fading into oblivion, like an overrated phrase blending into its meaning or a jar of sunsets turning into clichés. I end up narrating eulogies like lullabies, while the night begets chaos.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 56w

    I've often wished to be a muse, carved into his poetry. A sonnet perhaps, reflected in perfect symmetry of phrases and rhymes.

    His muscular hands caressing my cheek softly and the ink falling in cascades on the fair skinned parchment.
    His thumbs trace the outline of my lips and the pen etches aching sighs. His name rolls down my tongue, stealthily.
    He murmurs kisses along my neck and quickens the pace of his words alike my erratic heartbeats.
    Fire breathes beneath my skin, and his hands bend it into passion betwixt his words.

    I've ventured beyond a poetry now, he says.
    He calls me a masterpiece like none, entrapped forever in his heart.

    ©lady_midnight

    #writersnetwork #mirakee

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  • lady_midnight 56w

    Love is an infamous innocence,
    scandalously scented.

    ©lady_midnight

  • lady_midnight 58w

    My mother had a vanity case full of popping cherries and firework shades. I was afraid of their roars, yet curious sometimes how they were so bold. Before I learnt to speak, I was taught to put finger on my lips, to keep my tongue locked in like the protests hidden in her vanity case.

    I grew up afraid of red the most. But it was everywhere I looked; the blood I spilled from biting too hard, keeping the cage closed to the first horror of my period I trudged from, not knowing that it was something so wrong, something so scandalous.

    I was taught how to be a woman, painted in sombre browns to blend well with the background. They told me red was for those with deformed thoughts of love and freedom, that red was a curse raging from ages.

    I opened the vanity case again that night, and they breathed a sigh of relief. Surprised yet delighted they told me tale of how patriarchy steals colours like the Grinch stole Christmas, that they couldn't steal the red flowing in me so they took away my screams.

    I shed subservience of centuries old that night, and woke up a woman, redefined. I proudly wore red, not an act of defiance but an act of acceptance. I became me the next day, a woman bleeding consciousness and power.

    ©lady_midnight

    #writersnetwork #mirakee
    @raika_ @pen_and_paper

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  • lady_midnight 60w

    Haphazard phrases with a side of Sunset

    I like evening rituals of sitting in silence and mulling over sunsets and ends while a warm cup of tea lies forgotten on the table. You can catch me chasing butterflies in my thoughts like it's the beginning of spring, all the while brown crowns adorn the Earth.

    It feels like a good story on my lips, the forgotten tea, lukewarm, waiting for the traffic of thoughts to signal green. I gulp it in parts, in sips, pausing to taste the semicolons and full stops; they keep me on edge, you know.

    They see me as a mystery, a shadow sometimes, because I like the company of sunset, skies and stories more than the gossips they partake with their cup of English tea.

    I like the satin slip hugging my curves as I let the ending wash over me, while watching the sky turn sangria to sanguine. Wind paces by my window and I watch a few tea leaves floating in the cup.

    It tasted like a rough end, with a bittersweet aftertaste, promising an epilogue. A smile hangs low tonight, making up for a rather grim evening. I'd invite you for a tea sometime, if you accept my haphazard phrases instead of headlines on a zebra crossing.

    ©lady_midnight