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  • tamanna3 1d


    most people I called mine
    are now out of reach,
    and the least I can do
    is let them be.
    I had learned the lesson
    of letting go too early
    but never could practice
    the same art.
    they say it takes more of you
    to hold onto the past
    than to let it go
    but what do you do,
    when it's the same baggage
    that keeps you from drowning?
    when I say people,
    I think of sunflowers
    and ships in the sea,
    but the world is panting
    with drought in its veins
    and a Bermuda triangle
    on its only third side.
    doesn't it remind you of people
    and their many pretty faces,
    but expectations hurt
    and you can't grow immune to that.
    when I think of people,
    I hear their songs of love
    and sighs of farewell,
    but the world is bleeding
    in words of poets
    and wars of times,
    so much that double plurals
    in my poems can't
    suffice to say
    how much it hurts.
    most people have built
    homes midway,
    for a destination sounds too complete
    and the least they can do is
    choose an end they can really see.
    most people i called mine
    are so out of reach,
    maybe it's the distance
    or the parameter of clocks
    but the more I look away,
    the further a horizon slips away
    so all I can do
    is jot down these thoughts
    and make a poem of them,
    'cuz even if I'm not a poet
    these words can still
    sympathize for me,
    even if it's for their own sake.


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  • tamanna3 3d


    as pet
    still a carnivore

    in tricolor
    yet washed clean

    in bloom
    mimic illusory temple

    open wide
    still see blur

    of own
    made by others

    of people
    souvenirs of fallacy

    in disguise
    impersonate pet canine

    of past
    still home anarchy

    awareness awakes
    without mindful ignorance

    would remain
    an incomplete victory.


  • tamanna3 4d

    basic, #oxymoron .

    i see ocean, i see desert, i see the world.
    everything is the same thing,
    but with different name
    it's life again.

    - Sea, Kim Namjoon (BTS)

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    ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴇɴᴏᴜɢʜ

    There's so much to say
    yet nothing to suffice,
    so much in between
    yet nothing to fill the gap,
    so much in a 'no'
    yet nothing to explain it.

    I see an old couple
    worn of age and yet
    strong enough to live
    without the very hands
    that held onto them
    to learn how to run.

    I see a man brimming
    with youth and life,
    yet sells off time
    downing tons of wine,
    never realising what a waste
    he'd soon amount to be.

    I see an ocean swerving
    its waves back and forth,
    like a silent warzone
    bustling with activity
    as much as it's naming
    a deathbed for millions.

    I see the desert ruminating
    on its birthplace it'll never be,
    while lost men on its sands
    looks up at a pole star,
    itself grieving for never guiding
    creation to a southern end.

    There's always a lot
    that's never enough,
    always a smiling face
    that's never happy,
    always a 'something'
    that's never 'what we want'.


  • tamanna3 1w

    Dear Sky,

    Everytime I gaze in your direction, I can't but look up at your face, so much like the rest of the world- multi-faced, and yet the human in me wishes to count on you, half-hesitantly, supposing one of the many possibilities of not being let down by the seemingly 'closest to knowing entity' of the many unknowns in the salubrious list that we- humans, don't like to address as 'superstitions'.
    I know that's one long statement to be a first, but we share a long history, don't we? Everytime we exchange glances, I discover a part of me in you. Birds in flight seem to draw invisible maps on your face; and as much as I try to unravel these transparent threads to build a whole image, soldiers in white threaten to endanger the little peace I've gathered because my life is an open book, and you, the sole reader.
    As I learn and relearn your many faces, I can't but accept, how every emotion in my mind is like a replica of the many repeating sigmoid waves that streak purple zigzags across your face. Dear sky, it's not just me, but the entire human race, who look up to you, with a million prayers in their mind and yet the only word that forms on their lips, spell the name of their god of faith. Won't you be a little generous today?

    © tamanna3


    Finally my mind could rest, though it's still a bit chaotic.

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  • tamanna3 2w



    the verdent curtains
    in my room
    admit all the foreign light,
    the opale print on it bloom
    like white roses
    glancing at me
    with straight faces.
    perhaps my window panes
    are more transparent
    than the person inside.


    the mustard walls create
    an illusion of warmth
    but the skin I own
    has grown older
    with time,
    it knows how long
    winter resides inside.


    the clock on the wall
    was the loudest
    of us all,
    its hands sped faster
    than the cars outside.
    now it tells its story
    in sighs every night,
    like a learner of silence
    who lets its family own
    their voices better
    than before it arrived.


  • tamanna3 3w


    every day of being
    human is a war.
    every night I buckle up
    and set myself en route
    to the endless road-
    'cuz everyone's chasing
    the same goal,
    the same mystery,
    the same journey.

    at one point midway,
    we're all scarecrows
    hiding behind
    chalked smiles.
    angels hover over
    our lifespan,
    stretched like north
    and south poles,
    we can't see either
    but they exist,
    frozen in their own places.

    I see people,
    building walls
    in and around
    I try drawing boundaries
    to keep them away,
    often forgetting
    I'm as much
    a human as them.


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  • tamanna3 3w

    134340 ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴋʏ

    Electric veins sing!
    a song of light 'nd not words;
    The sea hums your name in sync.

    A stoic shore awaits
    passage of this storm in peace;
    The sky riots loud in thunder!

    Sombre azure writes!
    an ode to photophile times;
    Earth welcomes night as old pal.

    You bask in your light
    never minding opinions;
    A halcyon Pluto, you smile!


  • tamanna3 3w

    ᴅᴀᴡɴ ᴏғ sᴜᴍᴍᴇʀ

    before it dawned on my visual field
    you were gone
    like a ghost in the wind
    now the air is stale
    and speaks a foreign dialect.
    my mind picks up
    the last few signposts of summer,
    waiting like angels of transition-
    one eye verdant,
    another blood red.
    maybe this evening is possessed
    or maybe I'm seeing things
    or maybe, just maybe
    the world is racing too fast.
    two hours past
    the end of this summer,
    my arms are frozen from
    your transparent embrace.
    two swollen orbs
    traverse the skyline,
    searching for a rebirth of dawn,
    when electric poles cast
    longitudinal shadows
    on the thermodynamic sand,
    but farewells last longer
    than wordless prayers.
    nightmares tiptoe around
    the borders of my town
    and monsters creep downstairs
    from their highland houses-
    battles resume in the wind,
    muffled voices hint
    at silent prayers,
    a sigh a door,
    a plagiarised speech on screen,
    two bottles of champagne-
    one underneath a bed,
    another in bits claiming a quietus.
    thousand soldiers on road,
    and three battles curtailed at home.
    in a world where winter lasts forever,
    orphans of life still peep
    through windows,
    a prayer in their gazes
    knocks on summer's door.

    a sunset a day,
    two battles a night.
    someday there'll be a dawn
    without martyrs of
    a quotidian summer dissolving
    with hopes on the shore.



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  • tamanna3 3w

    #color . Too early and too late.

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    with all the fuss about rainbows
    black rests on an armchair,
    its hands touching the sky
    and eyes on a crowded pavilion.
    it smirks at astronomy books,
    silently mocking the timeless wars
    for its multifaceted kingdom.

    (there's a leather shoe in my room,
    my father wears it everyday
    to his favorite place outside our home,
    he loves its black
    coz his father loved the same;
    there's a hierarchy of darkness in my family
    but we live more happily
    than frontline faces in white.)

    black is more a noun
    than a descriptive tag for
    bottomless solenoids in the sky;
    it stands with a complete profile
    unlike the concrete ground
    under my feet,
    that feeds on transparency
    every morning I rise.


    black is, for it reflects all
    if not for black, what would you love colors for?


  • tamanna3 4w


    today the church looks empty,
    there's an air of funeral
    at the priest's place,
    the only person he loved more than god
    fled his home with an atheist
    the holy scriptures now lay on the floor,
    their heads down
    with guilt and introspection.
    two devotees stood by the church door,
    their faces heavy of
    betrayal and indecision.

    a heritage of twenty years
    crumbled down in a second's span,
    all in the name of religion
    and frozen virtues.
    a divine sky sighed in contempt,
    all those bars of faith and devotion
    averted building a house
    intended to be a home;
    a priest and a father
    failed today in unison;

    will you visit that church again?