I have been crashing periwinkles on untrodden pavements since the lilacs in my sky merged with an utopian galaxy that the voids in me can't fathom. I carve letters out of half broken promises and cut them with the broken skyline. I've heard the winds telling me that we're still under the same sky so I tie them with the threads of the zephyr leaving loose knots filled with nostalgic almosts. They never reach you because perhaps your fingers are too broken to open those knots, you're such a distant thing that I've seen from close through a peephole and the gaps in them come running to me again deciphering as memories even after 131 days of your footsteps leaving my half opened doors.
Crisp eulogies and reverse epiphanies stay on my lids as insatiable beliefs, I still draw us on brimmy sunsets hoping the sunrays someday will remind you of me, I know your stolen smiles pave back to cyclones and your bits have named themselves broken infinite times but I have been sighing chants of your name on each note my lips spell.
There are questions rotting as failed bruises on my back asking me "how did my skin become the thesaurus for heartbreak?" I saw you burn and I was afraid of matchsticks so I drowned me down, I am waiting for pristine knocks on my rusted doors screeching of maybes, I've built homes in me with your name scribbled on each wall hoping at least I will stay as a half bent page in your old tales, I will right?
P.S. - I'm running out of ways to hide this dictionary of hurt I borrowed from you, I want you to return and tell me there's still a page of smile left, come back, will you?
She flutters among The smiles of daisies Deciphering the saga Each petal bears Singing them canticles Of the drizzle's heartbreak She will carve cacophonies Into songs for the dawn Her nimble fingers Are painted in art Swiftly tickling the windchimes When the canvas touches Her heart, a splash of Colourful cocoons take birth Into a fauve flutura further Festooning her unchained verses Rain and the wind kiss her poems as she whispers her maligned mess to the night Her smile is a silver shine And her soul is a holy glitter But believe me, she's a golden art No colour can portray For how do you define the beauty of infinity in mere words?
Hahaha again a question where I won't answer and again a "you" which refers to me as always XD I seriously don't know how to end a poem because poems don't end and that's the sole reason I love poems. Sorry it's long ik (._.) @galvanizedthoughts ट ( Einstein IQ × 200 if you decipher this, hehe not really) #piyufav
HAPPY BIRTHDAY VAISHNAVI DI ❤️ @ablaze_writer I still remember that it was you because of whom I'm still writing here today, you've been supporting me since my very start in 2020 and if it hadn't been your genuine support and motivation, I wouldn't be still here, you've always been kind and supportive like an elder sister and I'm so glad to have you as one for I've always wanted an elder sister, if someone would ask me what true hope looks like, I'll surely name you ❤️ thank you so much for existing. I wish you all the happy skies and serene sunflowers. I love you ❤️.
Just a stupid scribble for you, ik I suck at birthday wishes (._.)
Thanks to Mirakill the poem in the bg is no longer visible
Fairyyyyyyyyyyyyy ❤✨ @tamanna3 Happy birthday! I know I'm so late but I love you hehe I was counting days for your birthday but see I couldn't wish you earliest, blame life. I'm so glad to have you and I mean it when I call you fairy because you've always brought sparkle in my life❤ You're a blessing to have and I can't thank you enough for always being there You've my heart, you just do. Much love, you're the best hehe✨ I wrote this stupid scribble in 5 mins so pardon me(._.)
Oh thanks deer Mirakill the poem in the bg is invisible. So kind of you. Love you
"And when you'll have my carcass burnt, my flesh and bones will be dusted to ashes, but my poetries will continue sharing their existences to every passerby. A part of me will still continue the eternal life."
//When you said I will never be your vegetable because I think when your're gone, it's forever// - Chinese satellite by Phoebe Bridgers
She wishes to emulate the Koshi river the day when she would be on the cusp of adulthood, steadily making a transition, hoping to pull off an effortless butterfly stroke away from the austere teenage that had her in its clutches; a rebel in the making.
She wishes to swim across this river that she once fancied some day, far away from the shallow and she will know that her time has come when her soul and the shore would only be an inch apart, and she would frantically drape the waves around her shoulders and close her eyes while on the cusp on infirmity; an unconscious rebel with a fist in the making.
the devil dances as it climbs back up on my chest, with his legs tightly wrapped around my neck; it's getting old, the paint is peeling off, and we sat back, and watched, and grabbed on some popcorn, and, then again — we sat back and watched, watched the paint peeling off, waiting, waiting, waiting, until the roof falls down and pops one of our heads. the kids in my basement, in the attic, wailing inside the water-well; lonely ghosts, will you take me in, for, I know more than most, I am meant to be alone, a spectral presence that everyone looks and walks right through.
everyday, almost everyday, I break my back, spill my spine and guts just to rinse these thoughts away. you can see me, precisely where you left — entombed with the remains of your last words, that, I'm not the one and only, not your friend, family or lover, not your beloved, never meant to be loved; you should have kept it at that, because, whenever you try, you seem to fail, miserably — like that one time, when your mother died, but, you, you tried to bring her back from the state where her body had less organs than maggots, swimming in and out of that flatline; you tried your best, and, now your mother haunts you at night.
it is indeed funny, how everything that you pretended to love, had to see the dawn of death — and, to be honest, there is no wonder, that you're scared to live, to love yourself; because the thought of decaying before dying, haunts the room in your head, like we do, me and your mother. killing oneself is only easier once one starts existing, and, how do you stare down the depths of the muzzle when there's certainly not a face to shoot at ? you're asleep, you sleep at peace knowing that the people who truly loved are rotting away, you are at peace knowing that you are everything you hate, that you are everyone you hate; never realising, you have to take a taste of your own medicine, now that you're falling short on strength, to keep a hold, of your own fate.
I'm content with the darkness that lays cold beneath the loam of my head, I'm glad that I dreamt of what I dreamt, my mother was dead and, my father was in dread — he pointed the barrel to his throat, and shot himself; now, it's only me, left all alone, waiting to be gone by the wind; what a day, what a day, I wish nothing less, or, more than death on everyone.
death to me, death to you, we can kill ourselves all over again, in the afterlife too. a fun world, with a comical backdrop to our collective heartache, it's such a free country, that we unknowingly let something else grow inside of us, a parasitic push that touches all the wrong buttons, and, once it's gone; we try to find it in our surroundings, in its entirety, practicality and physicality.
a fire burnt the three of us, from the ashes rose a flower; ugly in its presence, although, the past would still be mine and yours, and the future, let us not think about that, for, it tethers me to the thought of dying even in my demise; our bodies, like a millpond, stagnant and decomposing. I'm glad that I dreamt of what I dreamt, strap me to a rope and raise me high — tell me, what's it like to be afraid to die.
(the night looms, so does the dread — the glorification smothered in my poetic paintbrush, it would save all of us; ironic to an extent, because, I just wished death on everyone, on me and you, just so that, we could kill each other in the afterlife too).
Disclaimer: wrote after a long time, might be lame. :/ Kinda temporary
Shall I serve you a poetry?
Repeated sayings, And cliché advises, Revolving amidst people. My own self, Marinates these In these poetries, To add the kick of spice, You lick off the spoon till the last bite( word), And later barbecues them to roast, Adding crunches to the outside, So that my poesies could make you savour the crunch, And later when your teeth would Bite off the mushy insides, You would realize, The words have sharp edges, But the meaning doesn't, A learning teenager, Couldn't grill it to perfection, But you wouldn't complain, About the right f(l)ame(ness), And I would see with keen eyes, Would you smile after gobbling another bite ? Because you see, Insecurities have always lived in me, Like coals in a grill stove, Burning on the body, roasting my poetries. And I would serve the broiled meat, With some carefully cut on(i(r)on(y))s, And sprinkle some le(mon)omaniatic juice, And garnish it with some gre(en)thusiasm herbs, And you would be attracted to the first glance, The way I'll decorate the plate With synonyms , sauces , metaphors, mint, My half burnt poetries, Will be licked off the p(l)a(t/g)e, And in the end, When I'll collect your dishes, I will see that those barbecue sticks (after-thoughts), Are a waste, However it smells of my last cuisine (poetry) , I fed to my customers (readers).