“Each had his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart; and his friends could only read the title.” Virginia Woolf

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  • tanya 14w

    Tomorrow shall come like the summer's first glow
    to look at life till the eternity grow
    to see and strive till the epiphany to flow
    together to save the heart crystal clear like the snow

    ~ T

    Turning tables. For sometimes some stories' endings despite how ineffable and inevitable that is, starts with new beginnings.

    That's the last.

    Even if I had written in enough words, it won't be, it can't be enough to suffice in words for the human that I became when I came here, for the mystery that life has been for me in so many ways till now. I didn't had the answers to so many questions and suddenly m i r a k e e happened when I myself couldn't understand of how I not only came here but stayed here and for so long and of how chose a name only because of my strange ecstacy for stating its meaning saying, 'of the family'.

    That's the last as I write today as the writer I'd forever cherish as the inevitable treasure and finally as Tanya ....

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    Turning to return to the lyrics writing rainbows of the summer times
    I wonder if that fits for the world I wished to see;
    of the human with the oldest ecstacy and fervour,
    since forever gazes first and foremost for me,
    to remember what I wrote even in the words unwritten.

    I ain't what I have written!

    I once wrote to myself of how the time is to be right
    like the most fortunate flight,
    like the ships I were to sail shan't in its trails has to be sinking
    until I saw that towards the shores I've been sailing.

    For I know I ain't what I have written!

    I've been looking after the tales brewing under the rains and coffee
    savouring each of them despite delayed glances and distances immortalizing in the simplest atrophy.
    Ever after seeing the galaxies were on its closure and the coffee's getting colder,
    surprisingly, I became a little more of me,
    sooner than before and not so late,
    stimulating the life that couldn't ever try tickling the fate.

    Forever I knew I ain't what I have written!

    I forevermore reminiscised and romanticized
    the kit full of unwritten poetry
    to undiscovered skies and galaxies,
    yet the universe couldn't hold
    the weight of my definition of romance,
    that often had a life in the earliest of dews,
    calmer and colder,
    shown my name's synonyms to me even closer.

    I often sensed I ain't what I have written!

    To the end of a childhood and the verge of adulthood,
    I travelled and went to most places,
    more than I ever thought,
    I've seen serene mixtures and textures of all the stunning seasons,
    beyond my dreams ever taught,
    I've been in some of the illustrious of events, destined for some of the early springs
    to a fuillermort,
    that some secret musings forever wrote.

    Yet even beyond beaches and cruises
    the heart lives for the beats to have found a home for the soul,
    yet the eyes beholds as the season folds for the unseen snowfall,
    yet the soul lives on for the stories that unfolds to tell of a human lived a tale that speaks it all.

    Yet I've seen I ain't what I have written!

    Turning that older self I know
    I try and see beyond the eons height,
    that's how I saw I'm not me even in my shadow's sight.

    Turning to unfurling to the similes of the autumn
    in tunes of the happiest rhymes,
    trusting to homecomings of the springs
    that comes together with the monsoon times.

    I live more than I see in the life in stories unwritten, and, till then,
    I ain't what I have written!

    ~ T

  • tanya 15w

    The plants of the upcoming spring showed the brightest tints and shades like a carnival of disintegrating serendipity and shrouds of the symphony in the callous cacophony of the lonely traveller, seeking the age old memories and a bloodstream in the heart to skim upon the bones while living in the atrophy.

    Cut through in the dilapidation and deprivation in all its tranquil translation look like the obscure memory of the insinuating flower colours for all I can only say were all sorts of brights, but after the final fall, they were all whites .

    Despite aching all through the trembling chandeliers, smiling voluptuously for turning to the forgotten madeline, gleaming with a silver sheen like darkness dusted with the infancy of the moonshine, the happiness at times treads softly at the undulating mnemosyne, when I don't skip a beat, for that's when with every wreckage in a wailful choir turns to the cathedrals greet. To find a wave, to remember to find the gain in pain with each treasure that knew how to wither for the warmth of the days to shiver and the midaged flowers seeing the end, gently quivers.

    Deliberately as I increase the volumes staccato, legato and vibrato or if in fortunate instances it's already in that state, I don't change a thing to change the norms of the capacity of the ear muscles except for a stubborn self that acts to slower the beats down of the waning audio.

    And the next impulse is triggered to the gunshot like the only ship wasn't meant to sink.

    And the world didn't drowned in ruins, and like an unflinching passion, that even made the halcyon think.

    ~ T

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    to living another life in this lifetime
    with your daughter, mother

  • tanya 15w

    I just couldn't leave yet,
    so I wasn't piling up the nickels in the nearby plant pots
    under its deepest roots
    to grow the venomous plant in graveyard
    where the sun couldn't ever rise
    and the concepts of the milky way galaxy
    and the light years ahead were the practical myths told to a child
    who won't ever be familiar
    with a homecoming to the loneliness.

    there wasn't even the slightest possiblity
    to leave the home
    for I already left a long time ago,
    when already in the backyard of an unfamiliar house
    and the heart whose doors were locking up each time
    whenever there came a feeble opportune to stay, and yet,

    the keys were forever running on a cut short.

    'the cut' itself
    tells me how immensely
    I was lying to myself far more
    than just lawyering for the law itself,
    where I being the stubborn culprit
    violated the rights for the self vicariously
    ironically the year of 20-21 sums up the tale
    yet again, but this time surprisingly
    briefly and efficiently.

    life's toll were on the shrinks
    on my own disillusionments
    struggling in the unaided ailments,
    there was I -
    diseminating the dissonance of the dead soul
    on and around the sleeves and the swamps of arms
    while reiterating, reminiscing to insinuate
    in the midst of a desperate escape
    with the conscience that shed and leapt
    to the whirlwind of vents and events.

    maybe that's why I was an emotional invention
    to the world
    that I had to offer the timeless tribute
    to winding paths and twirling rhymes
    more than ever before from time to time
    till it shredded in believing for the time being.

    that I -
    being the arsonist,
    couldn't ever realize
    I trudged on the unseen, unfelt discoveries
    of shelter in the gothic of poppies
    for the dares and layers
    of the crucified emotional quotient
    on temerity of the mystic follies;

    that life
    couldn't warn enough
    'twere the recoveries of the screams of wilhelm

    while I -

    was even more than aware, the roads weren't leading me to Bethlehem.

    ~ T

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    this august,
    is just
    not my eight year old
    stare decisis

  • tanya 17w

    Tapestries that enlivens the tacit mileus,
    till that eclipses the sunlit dews

    Silhouette that unsheathe like the dramatising scintillating iridescent;

    trance of whose even the drear of the twilight hear,
    spirits of dandelion towards the mountain top conspires the coldest rains to cheer,
    the tempest of the zephyrs zest that concludes trusting it's the year's time at that time of the year.

    Amidst the vicissitudes of the sweet solitude if I wish the heavens to hearken a cry,
    the acrylics shall then weep dawning through the sea and the sky,
    the ways similar to this morning I might wish to have lingered for my unsung lullaby;

    like the quintessential dew lipped rose,
    cuddles the skies to awake,
    like the rumbling of scribbling for turtling of unyearning prose,
    trebles the sandcastles at stake.

    ~ T

    4th August 2021

  • tanya 18w

    the olden days with its stealthy funks
    unforgetful of its fleeting fucks
    basked unscouthed
    in the enforced debunks
    were a rhapsody,
    a parody
    when I -
    obviously wasn't habitual
    noting the collections,
    recollections of atrophy
    by the staggering of stacked stabs
    and disintegrations of hibernations
    to the creeks of times
    with my very own unchosen crimes;
    those that even if I try believing
    like the trained colonialist,
    the tyrant's militant government,
    the familiar filthy judgements
    and fake old unpunished grudges,
    just doesn't justify to glorify
    the inglorious crimes
    adjusted, unadjusted ferocious chimes.

    here even if I try to jot down the whispers
    of the sleeths like the withering symphony
    like the familiar deterring cacophony
    for the knolls and dells
    of the wreckening and beckoning beguility
    that have been facing, fridgeting and frolicking
    the dwindling passion's soulless probability.

    that day I just won't help myself
    staring around the emptiness of a fortunate paper
    for that would be the last sailing
    beside the whaling
    through the sunless sea
    that was always told and taught
    not to look for the days
    but darkness,
    vicariously legitimising a fogging semblance
    while I just went past the thought
    of an unoccurred planecrash
    that I smiled over on a whiplash.

    here, there and everywhere I'd admit
    to have been habituated
    the cathartic preludes of the foetal traitor
    who didn't just glued over the dying gladiator.

    ~ T

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    the normality roger before the post traumatic stress disorder

  • tanya 18w

    I often preferred dying in these hours
    of the day
    when there's pitch black darkness all around
    where the childhood sang songs
    of the ballads;
    to reach by and through my earlobes
    to not being the only saviour or the heartthrob
    to define a complex into a straight vortex
    and the entire spiral, cerebral and spiral dichotomy
    to dissolve in the white painted juxtaposition
    of loneliness and unadulterated quiteness.

    in the veil
    of that dialectic dilapidation
    in the surveillance of indoor oxygenation
    that I could manage to hardly fight per se
    and under the self intimidation
    and ineludible shelf and elf's resurrection
    after the orders from the look-alike
    of a tyrant who opted for a genocide
    where the wonders of the worlds fled
    in the blink of an eye
    beside the last memories
    of labyrinths and algorithms
    that conceptualises and epitomises
    the true colours
    of how even the lifeless flies could stung and cry
    and yet after all of my feeble attempts
    that can't, shan't even close to depict
    why the early youths did sat to die

    here she had to survive
    pretending while moving forward
    but oscillating all the way back
    to the stipulation of the stagnant renunciation

    here she had to crush and clutch the accelerator
    with that perishing lifeless heart on a leash
    along with a journey promising all things forward
    however that which went when all the roads drove backwards.

    ~ T

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    dislexic on sleep deprived dilapidation

  • tanya 18w

    eyes crystal clear
    rises from the ashes just quiver
    each day she told herself a sweet surprise
    in the bones of storms and marshmellows
    that she designed for herself the evils
    under the hauntings of the silent pillows.

    lies that have been in the rearview mirror
    like faithful cries
    while I was living as the ghost of that kodaline
    when I wasn't still mine
    just an addict on my crime and gasoline.

    that has been the driest summer of all time,
    rigid, timid, fugitive, subjugating,
    around the fluttering lyrics of the music
    I've not even written to start off;
    unaware, uncaring narcissive that were strewn on all the paths I was shown off,
    where I let the directions to tread on the tales that tells
    a bloodshed history
    of my dreaded skin,
    and the cold hearted sleeves
    that reeks of paranormal activities
    folded in upgraded deprivating success stories.

    the heavens know
    of why I didn't wrote griefs in proses
    where there weren't
    the tremblings and the silent rumblings
    even in withered leaves I ever witnessed,
    the dusk that sank just too soon
    for the eyes to even blink over the shades of longing
    where I wasn't -
    dwindling, even in the shrikes of my own belonging,
    and just for the lies to not settle here and there
    like an open jar astray,
    the dusk like the metaphors
    that only resided in the unblinked eyes
    they that couldn't ever rise
    even after surviving the life full of lies.

    ~ T

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    just my origin speaks Indian,
    not my survival

  • tanya 18w

    she, the freshness that flows in the coded uncoded letters,
    the might lurking even in the fragility, lifted the lanterns on skies that speaks of golden feathers

    she treads on the artist's way,
    forevermore understands the undiscovered discovery that sways,
    for time is fleeting,
    for she lives for the childhood that's always greeting;

    that turns for the end to start the youthful youths,
    with the eternal dews that longs for the scarlet's hair,
    like the unity of the tranquil of monsoon, summer's sonorous glare,
    that, that gives life to the life,
    that spirit retrieves of the tufts of the August's strife

    those seen forever till the tides of the Tuscan shore like she turns 18,
    she that acts on muses,
    of the marbles and trimbles,
    that sings to her being the 4 or 6

    she's smiling for turning that way,
    thinking she was once at 26

    ~ T

  • tanya 18w

    there have been the deadliest of colours
    in the hot baffling daylight
    where I didn't marched on
    towards the most distant
    but wildest of all dreams
    that I never witnessed in even the short lived slumbers;
    where wheels of time wouldn't criss-cross
    until they were screaming and screeching the heads
    with walls in a military campaign
    despite the awareness of the nationality,
    something's was always astrained as an outsider
    like the misunderstood preacher
    ending her own life before the other
    traumatic episode for the religion
    that's more of a tame
    and hardly a name for the starters.

    time travel if even exists
    probably you would like to ponder
    over the last smile that was to last
    for not just longer than a while
    where the air was even more than worse
    from the withered petals, rusted rhymes and broken debacles.

    I was more than just what the concepts
    it's not shown yet at being dead or undead,
    all I was teaching myself
    was to defy the norms of not to kill a riptide
    while I lay each day on a life
    as I gulped down newer versions of cyanide

    ~ T

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    the pistols were out of bullets for the unpopularity at the callous oligarchy

  • tanya 18w

    life once gave me a choice,
    choices, in fact,
    but I had -

    only been suffocating the shrikes of rights
    that hasn't been quite easy for lucid nights
    even uneasy for the already unpleasant rides

    for the weekends to sound a bit less bleak
    to forge in all troops of chivalry that slays for more of a freak

    once upon a life when

    there were dearth enough for any of the awful songs
    or ones which sounded as if gorging on the wrongs

    only the prodigy that longed and took a still at some corner sized forlongs

    there where the hourglass was too stubborn to drown in a dead ocean
    fortunate I was who took notes
    on the same day last month to survive for another
    not a delusion, but with some blessed seasoned potion

    making the feeling
    the living alive like the esoteric emotion
    for the greetings from the kindergarten's notion

    ~ T

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    summer flowers complaining about inopportune winters, were once behind the bars