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  • shreyah 3d

    Meditation fails to dress
    warped peace in homes
    where morning quarrels
    break sleep and dull day
    steals the worth of night.

    More often than not, I
    have seen homes inflate
    into a battlefield where
    contrasting perceptions
    rain like hand grenades
    particularly because we
    assign genders to chores
    that further the disparity
    between kitchens and
    drawing rooms, paving
    way for windows to carry
    forward the obdurate legacy.

    Albeit, love does bloom in
    ventilations on fine days but
    I have seen rage climb up as
    fire in hearts and rush down
    as tears on cheeks, on days—
    vulnerable, dry and intense.

    ©shreyah || 25-10-21

    _____

    #metaphor

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    Not all battles are fought
    with cannons and calamities.
    Some are fought with split,
    spat and silent casualties.
    ©shreyah

  • shreyah 1w

    This may be a poem to many but I couldn't have been more honest for sure :)

    _____

    #postcard

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    S K Y Way

    Beloved ether,

    I prefer brisk walks on
    terrace to not miss your
    eventide shades; the way
    you unfold blue, mauve
    and gold on your air-light
    skin and puff thunders on
    one of your vertices.

    I prefer brisk walks on
    terrace to admire the luxury
    of an eagle that floats in your
    territory; fearless and sturdy,
    versing in my ears that supple
    feathers don't flap before tempest.

    I prefer brisk walks on
    terrace to efface anxieties
    from over my face; losing
    every snag of my vision in
    your width and depth for a
    while. An escape or a relief?

    Of ties with skies.

    ©shreyah || 22-10-21

  • shreyah 1w

    21 Oct '21

    ____

    #feather

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    Of all the feathers that remind you of flight,
    Be a lady who broke fetters in 17th century.
    ©shreyah

  • shreyah 2w

    Brown water and a home
    of clay; a little marigold
    gazing at the brightest ray.
    I overheard the lips sipping
    the red, red wine that the
    green town is more than
    divine.

    A lady working by the
    riverside, fragrance oozing
    off the mustard to festoon a
    bride. I overheard the revels
    staling with passage of time
    that the scented town is more
    than divine.

    Light hearts beating at a lighter
    pace, mornings don't sponsor
    the habitual rat race. I overheard
    the tainted welkin envying the
    pious skyline that the peaceful
    town is more than
    divine.

    ©shreyah || 16-10-21

    ______

    #pastoralpoem

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    Looking for peace, gulping constant rage.
    My urban mind pines to settle in village.
    ©shreyah

  • shreyah 2w

    #combination
    _____

    One of those days when I don't feel like writing at all. Will be active soon.

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    Young and Wilted

    I stand against myself with a
    deadpan profile, swallowing
    an awful evening that resists
    to elapse. Perhaps, eighteen
    is an age too vulnerable to
    fall prey to unbidden distress
    and unattended depression.
    The gathering I wilfully walked
    out on, envies my seclusion
    enough to paste a dozen of
    derisions on my already ailing
    self and amidst all the chaos,
    I pretend to lie five feet taller
    and am compelled to feel six
    feet under. I know not if suffer-
    ing is the right word for such a
    fresh age but pain is one to all
    the plights —feeble or severe.
    Some give in or some just
    happen to carve an emotion
    out of it. Certainly, poetry is my
    last hope in times that drag
    me deep into despair.

    ©shreyah || 13-10-21

  • shreyah 3w

    On Indian railways,
    you'll either be caught
    stirring the hot tea of
    politics or relying on
    music; annoyed by a
    baby's cry.

    The ardour of cutting
    onto sleep to not miss
    a single landmark and
    travel less through places
    and more through shades
    of nature has somewhere
    been lost.

    Oftentimes, I wonder
    how elders acquaint
    themselves with each-
    other, digging relations,
    munching on groundnuts
    and peculiarly grumbling
    about cleanliness.

    The like-aged girl before
    me sneaks silent glances
    at me. Perhaps, we are
    yet to learn the art of
    communication because
    sometimes, all you need
    is a strange face and a
    futile conversation in a
    world which is busier than
    the bustle on a railway
    station.

    ©shreyah || 06-10-21

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    I travelled away from upsetting voices, unwanted falls.
    They tell me, I didn't learn to travel at all.
    ©shreyah

  • shreyah 5w

    Meticulous people chant no magical hymns.
    Is it a non-ideal art to sprint with no limbs?

    ©shreyah
    ____

    #growth

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    ~ D I V E R G E N C E

    I bloomed in the eighth
    month–tiny, tiddly and
    trammelled by kismet,
    failing my race to fit in
    the 'ideal' slot, right at
    the beginning of my trek.
    Albeit my arrival was not
    ideal, I had to be special.

    Growing up has surely been
    hauntingly beautiful–a tinge
    of nightmare, I experienced
    in broad daylight, sequence
    of distortions in the mirror–
    reflections that took time and
    tears for me and a paradigm
    shift for others to embrace.

    I have survived glacial gaze,
    ostracism, imperious sneer
    and a rear view of heavenly
    pilgrimage for I missed my
    limbs in the womb of my
    goddess while trying to ace
    the race that merely holds
    no treasure, no pleasure but
    an ugly core and uglier ethics.

    I adjusted with the world
    which failed to adjust with
    me for I had to master the
    art exclusively made for
    me—an accepted normal
    bereft of normalcy, curiously
    cooling my heels to decrypt–
    "how idealism justify abilities?"

    ©shreyah || 22-09-21

  • shreyah 5w

    Beauty lies in the eyes of beholder

    Dark records, red blisters.
    Prejudice pines to pave its
    path, preferances plunge
    into the depth of waters
    but as long as dead sea
    is alive, you'll stay afloat.

    Sarcastic similes, animals
    personified, equality roars,
    zoomorphism improvised.
    Some days, you're an elephant,
    some days, a giraffe, other days,
    a monkey or obviously, a hippo!

    What blooms beside Eiffel
    is no less than that planted in
    a slum. If only the world turns
    blind for an instance, irrational
    judgements would take a back
    seat and beauty will sail oceans
    to be felt all across.

    Wear a blindfold and erase
    the concepts of inferiority
    and superiority from the
    volumes of your dictionaries.
    At all, if you can, question—
    "Why does beauty lie in
    beholder's eyes and not heart?"

    ©shreyah || 20-09-21

  • shreyah 5w

    A- When the world fights a war
    B- halfway

    #combination #wod

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    F E U D

    Blue sky turns bluer,
    dusk dives, dad arrives,
    water splash, wrong
    vegetables, mom cries,
    dinner dies, argument
    survives.

    The longer the night, the
    meagre the hope of earnings.
    Sleeping is difficult in towns
    where mornings run home.

    Squirrels break into a quarrel,
    brothers and their spouse,
    one blood, two house,
    ancestral property, raised
    brows, blood red floors,
    sprinting mouse.

    Halfway through a
    mundane day, a death
    and a death sentence.
    The walls wail, coins
    jingle. Who survived?

    When the world fights
    a war, burn the grudges
    and light peace.

    ©shreyah || 19-09-21

  • shreyah 6w

    Clearing the clutter :/

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    Of chaos and convolutions

    It's the end of falls,
    stop pouring, mate!
    I've been waiting
    at the crossroad,
    selling a pastel art,
    palpitations of my
    heart, a few songs
    that hurt, cradling
    stories tucked under a
    Levi's t-shirt. A gaze, so
    restless, lips fastened,
    lungs breathless.
    Feelings and eggs,
    rotting in comfort.
    What else shall I
    put on, a smile?
    Is that enough?
    Isn't it frightening how
    passionately do we
    make these mistakes?
    Defending our peace,
    placing pieces at
    stakes? Porous covers,
    misleading colours,
    over-grown regrets
    crashing over heads,
    bitter desserts following
    the wrecks. What else do
    you crave for, a story you
    could read or a story
    you could lead?

    ©shreyah || 16-09-21