sahoosmruti

There is always another story. There is more than meets the eye . ~ W.H Auden

740 posts

718 followers

246 following

• sahoosmruti 2w

  The weekend
  cuddles
  with empty beer bottles
  and the cars
  in the parking lot
  are yet to decide
  whether departure
  is painful or not. //
  A school going teen
  goes to the bar first time
  and she is yet to decide
  whether
  bars are the museums
  on weekends
  that become
  lively,peepy
  on the wheels of fire//
  Robbin
  winked at Leela
  from the stage
  and their eyes did
  monologues
  and the story started
  on that weekend
  didn't need any script further. //
  A friend long forgotten
  came to meet me this weekend
  I asked him
  what did he see in that
  empty alcohol bottle
  He said "void"...
  then I laughed and asked him
  "Can I give it your name"...
  The disgusting look in his eyes
  felt like a decaying weekend
  Wishing upon a blue moon
  where everything rots away
  the emotions
  meanings
  gesture
  concern
  touch
  everything
  yet that scornful feeling
  fails to resist
  from wearing that
  black mini skirt
  and go to a bar
  and discover
  bars are the museums
  offering life. //
  ©sahoosmruti

  12 2 2
• sahoosmruti 5w

  Error unveiled 0.1
  
  My brimming anxieties are sugar less, suffering from my colossal kindness and sympathy. I restore spring in the rows of my ribs to have a honeyed tongue, being aware of the fact that in long run by any means it will turn out to be a blessing in disguise. Still I keep creating tentative tales of tenderness in my head out of their fake assurances,fake flatteries, false promises and conspiracies.
  I have known the taste of betrayal. It is awful yet engrossing. Hence I pretend satire stupidity as responses to their culinary treacheries. I let them be witty in my story .I let them win, accepting all the goodness they fake and write chapter after chapters, portraying self as an aphasic antagonist.
  Hence everyone else in my story are good willed, pure hearts while I am assigned to navigate the ship against the air .
  
  ©sahoosmruti

  15 2 3
• sahoosmruti 9w

  Of half written letter
  war poets and peace
  
  Under the graveyards of peace the corpses laughed and we bloomed as war poets . Last spring we decided not to romanticise pain than writing tragedy .... But what tragedy we would have written if not about our own . //War poets laid down on the battlefield. Intoxicated by peace we turned into young wine with the name of war.
  
  ©sahoosmruti

  22 0 4
• sahoosmruti 10w

  When man becomes void
  peace becomes fear
  empathy becomes blood
  and flowers become fire
  someone somewhere
  stops the other
  from singing
  Haminasto haminasto....//
  
  I can see desolation in your eyes; that ruin on the lips is your but the blood is mine . When you cry I bleed unmitigated pain.
  
  When butterflies lose wings
  tongues commit suicide
  guns measure the depth of humanity
  and cages are occupied with rotten fleshes
  Someone somewhere
  stops the other from murmuring
  Haminasto haminasto //
  
  Are not we supposed to teach humanity ? But do the vultures speak the language of love ?
  And humanity without love is unfeasible .
  
  And we are void ...
  and then mortal.
  
  ©sahoosmruti

  18 1 5
• sahoosmruti 10w

  Fulfill your whims or else write them down . Pretty imaginations in words are the realities somewhere .
  
  ©sahoosmruti

  12 1 1
• sahoosmruti 11w

  Two & a half truths .
  
  The baffled
  emotions
  I am not allowed
  to exhale
  are the loathed weightage
  soaking
  my eyelashes
  And the compliments
  they showered on my
  eyelashes
  were nothing but
  mere distortions
  that I pretended to
  adore .
  Those who claim
  that pain purifies the soul
  I feel pity for them
  For I am exhausted
  being exhibited as subdued
  piece of art
  in the game of life
  where fate has the monopoly
  and I am
  just a solivagant
  directionless.
  I envy them
  who find me aorable
  for all my life
  I had to pay the
  price for it
  as an obligation
  and cherish the wounds
  inflicted
  feigning being unperturbed.
  
  ©sahoosmruti

  51 7 10
• sahoosmruti 12w

  ସମର୍ପଣ ର
  କଣ କିଛି ସୀମା ଥାଏ
  ଏଇ ଯେମିତି
  ସମୁଦ୍ରେ ଅନ୍ଧାର
  ଆକାଶ ଆଉ ତା ମଧ୍ୟରେ
  କ୍ଷୀଣ ବ୍ୟବଧାନରେ
  ଲୋଡୁଥାଏ ଅବକାଶଟିଏ
  ଦାୟୀ ହେବାଲାଗି
  ମେଘୁଆ ଆକାଶର
  ଅନ୍ଧକାର ପାଇଁ
  ଠିକ ଯେମିତି
  ଆକାଶର ତମାମ୍ ଅହଂକୁ
  ଆପଣାର କଲାପରେ
  ମାଟି ଆଉ ରହେ ନାହିଁ ମାଟି ହୋଇ
  ଆବୋରି ପାରେନାହିଁ
  ତାର ମାହତ୍ମ୍ୟକୁ
  ବରଂ ସମର୍ପି ଦେଇ ତାର ସବୁତକ ମୋହକୁ
  ମାଟି ସାଜେ ମାଧ୍ୟମଟେ
  ଆକାଶର ମୋକ୍ଷ ପାଇଁ ।
  
  ©sahoosmruti

  11 6 3
• sahoosmruti 12w

  Pause
  
  Only they could respect others wishes, whose own wishes remained unacknowledged most of the time .
  
  Your dogmatism has nothing to do with mine . So let it hang on to your personal space .
  
  Silence is cumulative . It may result magic if you are properly invested into it .
  
  Why do people often be in a hurry to make a conclusion ? One's assumption could be other's truth . - Lier
  
  I practice it as prayer to what you call unbotheredness .
  
  ©sahoosmruti

  25 3 6
• sahoosmruti 15w

  ଭିନ୍ନ ଏକ ଆଶ୍ଳେଷ # 4
  
  ତୁମ
  ସର୍ଜନା ରେ
  ନିଇତି ଉବୁଟୁବୁ ହୋଇ
  ପୁଣିଥରେ ତୁମ ଶବ୍ଦସାଗରରେ
  ହଜିଯିବା ର ପାଗଳାମି
  କେଜାଣି
  କେତେଜଣଙ୍କ
  ଲେଖନୀ କୁ ଯୋଗାଏ
  ଅମ୍ଳଜାନ
  
  ନିସ୍ତବ୍ଧତା ର ଛାତିରେ
  ମୁହଁ ଗୁଞ୍ଜି
  ଜୀବନର ମନ୍ତ୍ର କୁ ଗାରେଇଦବା ର
  ଆସ୍ପର୍ଧା
  କେଜାଣି କେତେଜଣଙ୍କୁ
  ଟାଣିନିଏ
  ତୁମ ପୃଥିବୀକୁ
  
  ତୁମ ନଥିବାରେ ତୁମେ ଅଛ
  ଆଉ ରହିବ ମଧ୍ୟ
  କୋହଭିଜା ସ୍ମୃତିଟିଏ ହୋଇ
  ଚୀରଇପ୍ସିତ ହୋଇ ।
  
  ©sahoosmruti

  9 1 4
• sahoosmruti 16w

  I zoned out on your indifference .
  I never kissed death .
  ©sahoosmruti

  22 0 5

• ak_anjali_daydreamzz 5w

  All Rights Reserved
  25 April 2022 9.25 am
  
  #poet #ak_wn_repost
  
  Thank you so much for Repost @writersnetwork ⁽⁽ଘ( ˊᵕˋ )ଓ⁾⁾

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  ��.��.��.��

  At the pandiculation of naufragous notions and
  horripulation of haunting saudade
  I slumbered within the chrysalis of a chatoyant cosmos,
  to wake up as a scripturient of sockdolager songs
  At the inglenook where poetic flames passionately tryst,
  I too, wore the cloak of a poet 
  
  ©ak_anjali_daydreamzz

  98 56 39
• sarcasticbong 5w

  #poet #wod

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  DRUNKEN

  a sheaf of abounded poems
  a box of polaroid memories
  a broken pendant
  a sparkling ring
  a tissue with her number
  a book called ‘Will You Be My Secret’ with her signature on it
  and a drunken poet's heart lays in between smiling.
  
  ©sarcasticbong

  54 10 18
• thegreymetaphor 8w

  I was straw-stirring
  the fresh lime soda that
  sat infront of me
  when somebody popped
  the age old generic question
  "whom do you love the most in the world?"
  It was more conversational
  and less of an inquiry
  anticipating a pondered over response
  which is probably why,
  the time it took to come up with one
  was less than heartbeat.
  "My brother", I said,
  resolute, undoubtable,
  like it was the most blatant truth I knew.
  They smiled.
  "You really can't live without him, can you?
  I smiled. And I just smiled.
  
  I have loved a lot of people.
  I have loved my brother the most among them.
  And I have done that for so long
  that I don't know how not to.
  And maybe,
  it's true that I cannot live
  in a world that doesn't have him.
  But is he the reason I'm alive today?
  The 'no' that bubbles in my belly
  is no less resolute than the answer before was.
  I know it because
  I've questioned it more often than I'd like to.
  In the dead of the night,
  under the shower, over the sink,
  staring at the wall pressing a fist to my chest,
  while trying to breathe, you name it.
  And the answer is probably
  the only thing that has
  remained a constant over the years.
  
  I love people because I want to.
  I love my brother the most
  because I choose to.
  But I'm alive today
  because someone chose me.
  I'm alive because my father refused to give up on me.
  Not even when I did. Especially when I did.
  
  And I hope, for the life of me, I hope
  that it's atleast okay, even if a little selfish
  if the one you will die for
  and the one you will die without
  aren't one and the same.
  
  
  ©Srishti
  
  
  
  
  _____________________________________________________________
  
  
  
  
  However badly articulated, this is the most honest, most personal thing I've ever written. And I hate myself so much for ever wording this line of thought. And even more for posting it.
  But I also hope I never delete this, this ill-written thing.

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  I love you.

  I'm sorry.

  46 12 15
• ashu154 9w

  इंसान को अपने काम के प्रति ईमानदार होना चाहिए,
  क्योंकि बेईमान तो हम खुद से भी हैं।
  ©ashu154

  15 8 3
• aivsairandhri 10w

  Iam a mottled flower's petal,
  A broken wind chime,
  The White translucent
  decaying roots
  of your favourite plant,
  An unfurled golden leaf,
  An old page of a dusty book,
  A droplet sleeping
  in the nodes of a leaf,
  You see me everyday
  But its not likely that you
  Recognize me everyday,
  And that's my power.
  
  I could pour my mind
  To a parched paper
  Become a thought
  Inside the grooves of your brain
  When I write ; I yield
  Such an unfathomable talent
  Of being a God of unsaid words.
  You may pity me everyday
  But its not likely that you
  Recognize me everyday,
  And that's my power.
  ©A!v Sairandhri
  
  #miraquill #writersnetwork @miraquill @writersnetwork
  #cees_query

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  When I write ; I yield
  Such an unfathomable talent
  Of being a God of unsaid words.
  ©aivsairandhri

  38 9 11
• ilaa_c 11w

  ��

  Read More

  ��

  ©ilaa_c
  How long does it take for a mask to become one with the face,
  Do we then even recognise ourselves
  We stop responding to our name
  Because the mask answers
  To the societal voices.
  The illusionary existence of emotions holds true
  Content to be a puppet pulled on a string
  By the one who handles us
  The mask remains firmly in place
  And another day begins.

  48 5 9
• titly_ 47w

  हम हमेशा रिस्तो को भूलने की कोशिश करते है,,
  मगर उन रिस्तो से जुड़ी स्मृतियों को भूलना हमारी वश की बात नही होती ।
  ~मनोस्मिन्

  132 43 24
• dishang8614 10w

  #kitchen @writersnetwork @miraquill
  Thank you for the ❤@writersnetwork
  
  Aroma of melancholy
  
  I haven't been so hungry as before
  the kitchen is warm and dull as mine,
  cold pretty raindrops on the window
  so as my words have drowned in a teacup
  of rose imperial tea,
  tears and flour dispersed in my soft skin page
  as I pray for clover and spring buds brewed
  to a healing power hoping to replenish
  with stillness my yesterday's dirt,
  there's a shadow of melancholy on the kitchen floor
  a mounds of old recipes yellowing with ages on the counter,
  a veil of gray covers the stagnant silence as nobody dines with me, only the clock ticks and tocks
  
  I haven't been so hungry as before that even the kitchen walls feed me with emptiness.

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  Same old memories, she and the kitchen in it
  somehow she ends up with the same recipe,
  a half baked false heart hungrier than before
  giving off the aroma of melancholic heated ink.
  ©dishang8614

  43 21 17
• iinking_rubatosis 10w

  #life
  
  Thhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhank youuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu @writersnetwork and @miraquill ����
  
  
  #as_pod(2)

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  The meaning of life

  When we are about to enter
  the mire of ruination,
  there is a moment to rethink,
  quick enough to be decisive,
  to change the direction,
  to take a step back. And
  if our heart, eyes, mind ain't
  fogged with the rainbow of dream
  which we think is a step ahead
  to become true, we can
  change the direction of
  feet of our thoughts, grab the
  collar of heart to bring in reality,
  reality, which is not sailing on
  false colors.
  But if we miss the cue,
  we crash in there. So,
  instead of dying of regret,
  we must forgive ourselves,
  march forward with the
  stick of hope and courage.
  May be things slowly get changed.
  Nevertheless,
  
  life will always park us
  in this situation back and again
  until death knocks our door of life.
  
  This is what I perceive to be the meaning of life.
  
  
  
  ©inking_rubatosis || 14.03.2022

  260 151 60
• thesunshineloves 11w

  deep in stars
  lying twisted torsos
  for some reason
  don't fall into black hole.
  attics filled with
  black emotions
  dreams filled with
  empty colours
  covering pain with ink
  swirling around
  choco candies
  and laying in fields of
  cotton bars
  some rant about past,
  some predict the future,
  words spill down
  like meteor shower
  from high above
  some spirits stuck in
  soul shop get to read them
  like a daily magazine.
  
  /how would blood flow
  out from those cuts,
  them, bloodless,
  spill ink,
  instead.
  
  gleaming onto
  damp skies,
  empty colours ponder
  to get refills,
  till today, which are
  reported to be missing. /
  
  reasonable souls get
  drenched
  in golden elixirs
  dripping directly from the moon
  like cherry blossoms
  find way to some graves
  despite those cheeks rising beneath
  those coffins, they say,
  moonbows tangled in their hairs
  dragging their silver cloak
  dusting words onto grass
  walking barefoot
  to reach the moon.
  
  ©thesunshineloves
  
  #miraquill #writersnetwork #pod

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  walking barefoot
  to reach the moon
  
  ©thesunshineloves

  55 23 24

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