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  • sumiinked 2w

    uh take care.

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    In fitting-finite

    on the days like springside I like to resurrect on the death, across the fleeting moments so fragile there's a time when the world used to be upside down in those, in which it lasts I'd like a part of literature and literally, thinking left your traces not much unlike the spiral around the sakura, a sayonara.

    ©sumiinked, and what if it hurts.

  • sumiinked 3w

    Happie Birthday Mr. Moloch,

    An unexpected one but
    A collaboration with @vaniloquence

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    सौदे नापाक थे मेरे, सजदों से ख्वाइश क्या होती
    पन्ने आदाब थे मेरे, कलमों की नुमाइश क्या होती

    इनायत के इक़रार तले,महशर वक़्त-ए-ग़ालिब की
    मयस्सर दिलासा दिए इख़लास किस ओर होती।।

  • sumiinked 3w

    Wishing you a very happy birthday, Mr. Moloch!

    Well, wait. I know what I write 'bout thou not even the half of our conversations and all I could say is I'm glad I met you. Thy "alright", modesty, kindness and saying sorry is something I'd never forget. I've told you this thousand of times howbeit you're the best serein, an amazing writer and a good friend. all I remember is that we met accidentally. I'm glad I read thy urdu writeup and more than that, thank you for being there.

    I want you to live, @vaniloquence

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    even though the primordial kneading
    deceptively up the berating bardic in
    obsolete down the stairs and the song
    and the treason of ammunition made
    a way, I afraid of death. abridged-half
    a hayat and how it could be summer
    even though the suicidal left out sin ;

    I, an atrament inking infatuation with
    the discombobulated ethics until the
    eminence reached to his veins in the
    guillotine of wagging an emissary and
    perhaps, it's the obsession of the sin
    or the summer to perpetrate against
    on the beseeching breakthrough of
    his history till the adultery alliterated
    across the escort of the soundtrack.
    thou the realism of Van Gogh's glade
    snuggled among the womb of patent
    unravelling an augured orificing over
    and other, steadily swelling up aperte
    thy whim on the brink to beseech, so
    this time it can't torpefy to november.

    their urdu tongue out of the top,clout
    touché error whichever morphed to
    the metaphor, moloch grubbled & so
    I know, you are so much more than an
    ostracised lyricsm or the rhyme, wag.

    two pac-corsair as the sixteenth of
    sin. palabras, frankly comprehended
    an ache beguiling in esotericism of
    sutures and strangled, 'tis coerced to
    shipwreck of her palindrome, ah how
    each kiss a heart-quake in the morn
    from the genre gramarye his genes ;

    ©sumiinked ||
    of catastrophic cwtch, near café 11.

  • sumiinked 3w

    P.s_ It's inspired from Arzoo by @_creatingworldsthatdonotexist_

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    /strip-sigh /

    Kneading the red-crest fount.
    forbear of forcement. dispersed in seven,
    all I remember was when I turned retrieved and the age minused,
    on a whim to write, welfare departed and the things were waded to reach the reign of raven!

    two years from then, I turned out to be honest
    and when I saw Abbu, he wasn't the word I meant to write.
    from wagging to her artery, a sexually desire.
    "Ammi, it isn't possibly a craving"
    I called to be warehouse, an aperte part
    discombobulated swelling up a catastrophic.
    if being silent is satisfying enough, it's truly a touché Shakespeare more probably a person who isn't love but a victim of societal,?
    and has a sitzifleisch into the fireflies that intumescent as a hetaera?

    I ran away. prying the disaster of vocabulary.
    A literature act puffed out and people started speaking;

    While half-a-plenty was the age she married
    ammi was thirteen and auctioned in public and privated bizarre people excessively hunters,
    "wore a purdah and stitch the soundtrack"
    "you aren't meant to write, too"
    Four step forward when I turned to sixteen,
    his lust asked to bring the berating out of the following and all I was thinking the things, Ammi etched!

    a society gramarye your verandah,
    on the day of occulting - "qubool".
    nevertheless, its a ferly polaroid on top of the tongue,
    which stitched and sticked and splited in forgery.
    I morphed to masjid, pry a writer.
    someone's as Ghazals of Ghalib,
    I, an evening of politics.being comprehensive phase and the background breakout thrived to thousand!
    My Urdu tongue beguiled the masquerade,
    Oh!how dreamy the pretendence could be.

    it beautify the validation off the field of (men)tioned, and I saw; you saw
    the controversies surrounding the rape, of each hour and it ostracism the reasons
    when I looked back and forth between the religions of melchior and perhaps the person who committed suicide from societal,
    If those two are wheels of a vehicle then rest it behind a convenience of one's own men-mind ?


  • sumiinked 4w

    Credits: Into the Forest of Fireflies' Lights (2011)

    *The author of "Hotarubi no Mori e" made this movie as a tribute to her friend who died of cancer.

    @writersnetwork Nandri! ��

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    My Prolonged patronage
    for a person I never met!

    thy iris rises, raises high whichever thou write
    & a spirit inside. tokyo-tower. hours of some summers
    and a wilted wine. I lost.
    I lost guillotine-gulmohar,
    to the segregation from summer
    perhaps, from the reparation.

    on an early hexadic. an author to the hour,
    of precedent, Into the Forest of Fireflies
    of your own.
    I was six, and a glomp glimpse of his hand left
    "strange someone somewhere near"
    for the shipwreck till the uhtceare
    and I hate hurt,
    I'd like hide & seek. somewhat.
    And once I liked the idea of love you had
    and an abditory inside that.

    before the feuillemort -
    my melchior-sigh, with skies
    and 'bout icecream thou brought
    and a spirit inside. left.
    there were fireworks and a sclera of snow,
    until you disappear and I disappear from death.
    you've got it all.
    "It's okay if you forget me"

    summers were something I looked forward to,
    and time might separate it,
    and the thirsty came up
    so someday see the fireworks
    & reel the real howbeit these years were best.

    ||we met but never set it to dawn||


  • sumiinked 4w

    "and the song, from beginning to end.
    i found again in the heart of a friend"
    - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

    P.s_ It's inspired from, Whisper Of The Heart.


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    / Finite fictional and his whisper /

    an antique shop. segregated enough,
    from absolute alliteration ere 'em artistry
    and downstairs a linen-lutheir
    and a city, Cremona. sloping beams before,
    and after, an expectation accidentally called out.
    i, an author of red-white nation,
    and a character where you can look sod.
    the sky and mid-of-summer i am perfidy
    and the masquerade to november month ;
    "It must be great to know what you want to do"
    until its clueless, came up.

    far from ermine,
    upon cockade of pauperised sunrise. i saw,
    and over and over it depleted last volume.
    he has dreams ; abridged halfway, through the bridges and android of high school,
    where musical ambridge conquer
    where extraordinary is a sidework.
    and doing different makes a web
    when the wave of hierarchy has its own fact.

    caeles calligraphy. edged evacuation.
    The day,
    when i wrote
    my waltz even when words were uncertainties.
    there sinks down the dawn,
    i had before i met him.

    sophisticated enough.
    ambitious agape affection who knows,
    perhaps he's the same person who read it.
    on the shorelines of saying,
    scold it a scripturient.
    overmorrow, fleeting beseech behind my back
    and eventide it brought a book
    while whole of his hand snuggled down the
    riverside half fortnight,
    the library left-facing like a wooden drop-lid.
    and we needed a rise,
    for falling in love.

    || imperfect parallels were supposed to meet ||

  • sumiinked 6w

    and you know that equation was particularly for you;

    it draped the three and half
    and midst that mirzai
    you wore summer and as
    long as you were there it
    had Van Gogh's chronic ,
    and the skies satires wrote
    calligraphy till the name
    i heard reminiscences
    and the skies vignettes
    from the core we wore
    and pythagorean until it
    awaken schmaltzy to
    the caeles and its celsius.

    i had been that gulmohar
    somewhere near that
    classroom of seventh
    when it signatured a while
    to textile the same celluloid
    and it recited those days,
    and sconces from the city
    where we were together,
    behind ashoka it had
    souvenirs to snuggle up,
    they all augured , to say
    fathom of that someone.

    perhaps, parallels won't
    meet howbeit it left and
    i wanna re-live assemblies
    when a tinge from that
    turmeric forbid benches
    to make a mark, sidewalk.
    i am fourteen and the
    theme showcase out of
    breakthrough it break and
    it retches off Gulzar's
    waltz from uncertainties
    that stutter seoni, i know
    but i want you to walk with
    me in my poetry.

    ©suman, from those students of spring.

  • sumiinked 6w

    || I am revolution of 18 ||

    I was told,
    to sip shasm and the name
    of reputation his shoulder
    carried. I'm wife of a man,
    schmaltzy before Tagore's
    death, rebel of 1857 to the
    riverside half fortnight.

    I was told,
    to originate just after the
    confluence of sindh river
    when my mirage were ;
    her valour to remember
    the Gwalior as mutiny in
    primarily with Jhansi.

    I was told,
    to symbolise its ochre an
    autobiography of Bharat
    I'm Queen of Jhansi and
    the emperor of liberation
    till the sword of Shivaji
    became resistance.

    I was told,
    to write the history and
    the emancipated cobalt
    which wore a word and
    sacrifical. I'm calligraphy
    to this day, autopsy a
    mizpah under pardah.

    I was told,
    to ceremony the courage,
    battle of mirage under a
    feet where it invaded the
    doctrine of Lapse. I am
    consumption of june
    when it inherited tamarind.

    I was told,
    to blue-blood as soon as
    it awaken the bhagwa of
    emergence when east
    rose bravery from a tinge
    to take the conception,
    which Marathas made.

    I was told,
    to deal Dalhousie whose
    invasion broke desh. I'm
    the violation for those
    villagers perhaps I was
    with evacuate. As they
    said, freedom a fear.

    I was told,
    to overthrow the outskirt
    and wore a fear to death
    I died beneath the tree
    which cremated betray.
    I'm summer to those,
    who burn empire.

    I was told,
    to accept and be an
    audience or else I'd be
    more than enough. I'm
    woman of promises &
    son to this motherland,
    while waving flag.

    I was told,
    to emblazone fathom
    some bardiche augured
    on autumn, I was a fall
    for Hindustan's history
    to rise revolution in
    eighteenth misery.

    I was told,
    to be a weapon when
    a writer in me wither ;
    Perhaps, I'm in those
    people this generation
    has forgotten.Maybe a
    punctuation of poetry.

    I was told,
    to ritualise to secure a
    way from Kashi to Jhansi,
    until it found Kotah-ki-Serai.
    speaking high & raising
    truth. I'm victim of
    violation a mere truth.

    ©sumiinked, from the POV of Rani Lakshmi Bai

    *Kotah-ki-Serai: a place near Gwalior, where Lakshmi Bai died.


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  • sumiinked 7w

    • it restrained the name you heard •
    - by changing tenses.

    I am fourteen,
    and the sunflowers that retches now write
    the forelsket when the summer-sigh takes
    grammatical obliteration behind the words
    I write.

    I am fourteen,
    and I go school whilst turmeric forbid the
    injuries and the knees start showing these
    names and those outskirts accordion has,
    until I write.

    I am fourteen,
    and the skies above text begins his theatre
    who tell the tales of Gulliver and Van Gogh
    till the word-paint cadaver a canvas on the
    frame I write.

    I am fourteen,
    & Ma they exclaim when it stutter farspeak
    while it takes sidewalks and gobbledygook
    episode till I cut my wrist to say summary,
    which you write.

    I am fourteen,
    and last of september dial Gulzar's waltz,
    and my first love fades before birth and the
    snuggles behind walls says scriptureint to
    read before it write.

    I am fourteen,
    and the theme commuovere left one on a
    moment beforehand the temporary reason
    guilt the hurt I wear while fireflies disavow
    tomorrow to not write.

    I am fourteen,
    & the framework which hang on the scarf
    align with the schmaltzy of fuchsia attires,
    with book which Jane Austen record now
    re-release the constellations to write.

    I am fourteen,
    and after watching today turn out into a
    Tagore's masquerade which I wannabe to
    attach some and somedays to mull over,
    catastrophic rituals whichever they write.

    ©sumiinked, a writer without wither.

    @writersnetwork really!

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  • sumiinked 7w

    • I a m f o u r t e e n & f i n e •

    it awaken the gossamers of something last decades' and the left ones beneath banyan cultured pyheb.

    || and it often absquatulate heritage ||

    today i turned to koe no katachi, yes the same movie we watched and it stretches the marks of my scrapbook i made, when i was seven. palash upright behind the verandah before his mirzai manteau my half-melt moon to maa's forehead red and i know she knows i wore her lipstick on core of lugra while the tangerine on my palms dried when the infancy stitched the same description of dark as haunting. and it says those days. i canoodled amongst the womb of bravery whenever grandma's story dictated dark and you know it no more felt brittle, it felt familiar yet not homely. i saw coquina after you and you know it still stutter sometimes when i burglared to your kitchenette howbeit it shared, today;

    || the summer on my hands dried on grandma's death||

    /substitute to rice, sometimes the vermicelli to sweet corn or koda kutki to millet. add 1/4 cup and soak it into skies' safa /and during the skillet to, on the flame, floor it with full-fat milk/ low the tint on brink of love / include sapphire of sareureuk saffron/ then drain the rice, add it to boiling milk/ and let it be the beginning, and yeah no need to cover the entire /add raw saccharine aka sugar when the rice is half-cooked /after an attire it is entirely tired to rest inside your stomach/ tasted cardamon on cup. sliced almonds. chopped cashews. cut pistachios accompanied with dry grape on top & ta-da the kheer potpourri those debris of your spittle / haha. dear xxx, do you remember you taught me this whilst the parijat fallen out of risette-recipe of your name?

    || mirinae hallucinated hallyu while way back home ||

    i went behind ashoka tree to trade analyst when flowers bloom at sapphire and summer steadily addressed his name with mine and it felt love and for a moment it was just us. dear xxx, i love skies, sakura & summer cause they never forbid f o r e v e r. fireworks finishes off and you know it felt two nights before the death occurred to my fireflies which i wore on cadaver canvas. doctor said, more illusions and it illustrated - i don't have enough time - verified virtuoso on brink of bardic my breast pressed down on pain and it was heavy. "her pulse rate reached to one thirty-five, how less left ?" they said. i saw dad doing his best but i befriended with death.

    || your silence portrait Van Gogh's vignette ||

    i was twelve when i felt it for first, and it was fucking painful you know. i hid it and hoped. i met a stranger while discovery of metaphors deceived, it bloomed in fossils and cobble-sized an exclamation to existence. i know i no longer can write, till the fingertips stop managing maestral each midway to stay. and the tenses upon their tongues started changing and it grammatically wrong on grandma's souvenirs but it farspeak the pokemon cards i kept since september sidewalks. do you often listen, "likhe jo khat tujhe" to "lag jaa gale" until standstead umbrage from sky and recite the emblazoned leaf, i once had interest on.

    || it has been seven-thirty augurs, i am about to fade ||

    on august, i dialled gaullifered coquelicot out accordion and i saw everyone saying sayonara. i don't had any idea to awedde the name, i recited. he left and it awaited from seven to fourteen. it has been ensuring uncertainties that felt a less today. seems like time is flying fast or maybe its just me who realised it bit later but it should be fourteen and fine.

    #feelstora (12)

    *pyheb: girls' attire which used to wear on feet

    *koe no katachi: an anime movie where a grade school student with impaired hearing is bullied mercilessly.

    *palash: butea tree, mirzai: manly attire of MP, lugra: way of wearing saree; koitur custom, safa: turban

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