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  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 21w

    ��

    It is saturday again, today.

    Ava walks in the december cold morning wearing her jerkins and boots with a cold coffee in her hand. For her, saturdays are meant for library.

    She registers herself in the library's register, the security and her exchanged their morning smiles. She walks into the clean, narrow, brown shelves. She takes her favourite book and sits by in the last table of the narrow room. A fair lady sits in front of her with her water bottle and book.

    "Isn't it too cold, today? She asked.

    "Yes it is." replied Ava, without an eye contact at her, seeing the book.

    She turns few pages and stops at 48 where she left a bookmark last week. There was utter silence in the entire room, Afterall library is meant to be so, right?

    The librarian enters and keeps a check on everyone.

    The thriller story she was reading kept her hooked to it.

    *Thadar* The bottle of the fair lady sitting opposite to Ava fell down.

    She looked up to her face. She felt like she had seen this face before.

    "Sshh. This is library." said the librarian.

    "Nevermind. Let's get back." Ava said to herself.

    Ava got hooked to this story only because she was able to resonate with each chapters. The death of the narrator's single parent. The narrator, being the elder took care of his sibling. Every details seemed like it has happened to her. Her curiosity tends to make her turn pages of the story.

    It was 1 pm already. Ava closed her books to have her lunch at home. The last page of the book had an image of a character in the novel. She stared at it for half a minute, Alas! It was none other than the fair lady sitting opposite to her. She doubtfully looked at her face. All in a second, The lady held her hand and took her into the same book. They got caught in. Everything seemed giant in Ava's eyes. The lady seemed to be nowhere around her. She was all alone. She looked around her in dismay, all she could see was Marie crying all alone with her brother hugging her. (Characters of the novel) This exactly reminded her of the situation she faced 7 years ago. That was where she stopped in the library.

    The page turned as she jumped at the corner of the room. She walked over the words and read the sentences.

    "Her inner self was telling : This is so you. The life long mystery you wanted to know, might be hidden here."

    Sentences automatically turned into scenarios in front of Ava's eyes as she started to walk over it.

    She continued walking.. Marie reminisces the same day but 3 years prior in the story. Her mother and she had been to a library, on a december cold morning. A fair lady sat before them, It is none other than the same fair lady who sat opposite to Ava.

    Ava was stunned seeing her yet here again.

    The library was calm and peaceful as it is meant to be. All of a sudden..

    *Thadar* a sound came, again.

    No, It wasn't the lady's bottle that fell down, this time. It was a shot, a gun shot targeted on the forehead of Marie's mother. Marie heard this sound and woke weeping for her mother to wipe her tears off. She was all alone without a pillar for her support with her younger brother.

    Ava picturised the scene replacing herself in Marie's place, her tears flowed out. Her anger bursted out at the fair lady. Within a fraction of a second the lady disappeared after shooting her mother.

    All of a sudden a purple-bluish hand shaped swirl kind of cloud came in front of her, which pulled her from her back. She didn't want to leave the place without questioning the lady.

    No! No! No! Don't pull me She screamed rubbing her eyes from the bed.

    ~ Poojaa


    Thank you for reading, suggestions are welcomed. :) ��

    #mirakee #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #shortstory #story (yes, I tried) #book #lost #thriller (xD)

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    Lost inside the book

    (A short story)



    ©Poojaa

  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 21w

    #poverty #wod :)

    2 Editor's Choice on the same dayy! Thank youuu @miraquill :) ❤��������

    16/7/21 ~ Friday ��

    #mirakee #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #writersbay #poetry #poor @writersnetwork #woundsc

    A repost of a shape poem I had written few months ago with minimal changes :)

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    // On Half baked life //

    They don't ask for rich bungalows to live,
    All they seek for is food to fill their tummy twice a day.
    If you don't want to help, that's Okay,
    But please don't bury HUMANITY.
    In this lockdown you might have
    felt like being in home is a boring task,
    For them platforms where you shouldn't go is home.
    All days, they keep lamenting about the life they are gifted with. "A life fearing each day about tomorrow."

    Everyday they grow out of cravings for a piece of bread,
    Maa, do we have something to eat today? Asks her son.
    Alas! The poor maa couldn't fill their stomach today.
    Her daughter is just 11, at the age when education
    is mandatory, she's sent to work in grocery shops
    and asked to sell books during traffic.
    I know, she has always wanted to study, but
    life has presented her such a circumstance.

    Wide eyes, Skinny arms, wondering about the
    crime they have committed for being punished
    to be a poor. They have no tears left in eyes, to cry.
    For now, all they have is HOPE that god will listen
    to their sobs one day. They look at the sky each day,
    Questioning their existence. How many more
    days will god make them sleep in platforms
    with mosquito bites and torn dress.
    Their wounds cannot be healed,
    their scars creates drought in world.
    If they ask for any help to rich,
    They'll be treated like the dirt of their doormat.
    The irony of our life is POVERTY.

    Her eyes only has a spark of tears,
    As a wallet passes by,
    Her bowl raises up seeking for help,
    Ending up being treated as no lesser than trash.
    What sin did they make to be born as such in this world?
    They have tasted all flavors of famine.

    Embrace them as much as you can.
    They are also a part of us.
    A part of our family.
    A part of our lives.
    A part of our world.

    ©Poojaa

  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 21w

    Question: What is the colour of the hope?
    Word: Mirror :)

    15/7/21 (Thursday)

    #question #wod

    Omg. Thank you so much @writersnetwork for the repost. ��❤ #poojaareposts 2
    @miraquill My first Editor's choice. Overwhelmed. Thank youuuu :) ��❤

    #mirakee #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #writersbay #poetry #hope #colour #mirror @writersnetwork

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    What is the colour of the hope?

    Hope is the colour of the bluish-purple
    hyacnith blooming in the spring. After
    the wither of the pale brown leaves.

    Hope is the colour of the extreme light blue
    mist that disappears along with the blue sky
    but still a thin line of air would be visible.

    Hope is the color of the red-orange mix
    of sunrise every morning, after the sun
    setting last night in complete darkness.

    Hope is the color of the God's hand
    that touches the new born baby in her
    mother's womb which was reborn.

    Hope is the colour of the broken mirror
    that still reflects the one who stands
    before it even after being into pieces.

    Hope is the colour of the fallen butterfly
    that mends its wing to flutter over the
    beautiful land of florals and leaves.

    ©Poojaa

  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 21w

    To the writer in me,
    Wouldn't you put an end to writing about the same solitude, humanity and chaos? I know, you never come out of your comfort zone, but how many days you think you can you still be caged inside them? Do you even think is writing all about being in comfort zone? Do you really call yourself a writer, if you don't explore various genres? For how many more days will you keep your wings flying only for the same short distance?

    // On somedays you'll flow everything your mind has stacked up all at once. On the other days your fuel is all just drained and you don't write anything. //

    Is this a never ending cycle?

    People say writing is their ikigai, writing heals people actually. You learned this art to flow out your emotions and all these days you have did so. but today I know, you wouldn't / never bury your writer self; but its somewhere hiding and playing peek a boo with you in this corner of your room, deciding whether it should visit you or not. Maybe, you can label it as Writer's block for now. But what if the "for now" is eternal. No it cannot be, it shouldn't be.

    Life is creat(ing/ed) a chaos for you each day, and writing sooth(es/ed) you everytime, you very well know that. And I know, you can't bid a goodbye to it just like that. FEAR. Writer's block can't overthrow you.

    Writing is like watching a 5 season long series, the process might be too long but the ending is worth it and so is you. Writing might bring circumstances to pause you, but writing cannot entirely stop you. You should learn to jump over the pause, the breaks, the negatives. Afterall life is all about battle right?

    Your emotions. Your ink. Your thoughts. Shouldn't be left concealed in an airtight container and kept secured inside the dusty attic. It should flow freely with full freedom.

    Dried ink. Dusty papers. Broken pen. Half stitched poems. Crinkled tales. Playlists turned on. Moon was listening to your meaningless poems when you thought you were a soliquy at 2am, since all these nights. Go meet Sylvia Plath, Robert Frost, William Wordsworth, Shakespeare and who not? through their words. They'll teach you what poems really are.

    Reminisce those days, the days when life was tough for you. Those days when people left you. Those days when you were all alone. Those days when there were none to listen to you. Scribble on some metaphors and similes. A tiny cube of alliteration or hyperbole maybe. Add a little dose of poetic essence and mix well everything together. Tadaaa! Your poem is ready.

    Everything is upon you. I hope you wouldn't go dormant again.

    Yours,
    A learner,
    Your writer self.

    ©Poojaa

  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 21w

    You are the wake up song of my day
    As you step into my door, I bend down
    to pick you up; like horse chewing its hay.

    My morning vibe is better cause of
    you; you're like Capital letter to my day,
    Moving my day and time in its flow.

    A quick glance of two pages is enough to pave way
    for a positive dawn. Your sports section changes my frown
    to bliss. I read you like walking in a long deep hallway.

    ~ Poojaa

    I have portrayed the bond between a person and newspaper in this poem. :)

    #mirakee #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #writersbay #poetry #newspaper

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    You are like a Wake up song to my Positive dawn.

    ~ caption ~






    ©Poojaa

  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 22w

    My life under her womb, all went in vain
    Was I not cute? Or They don't have humanity?
    I was thrown away mercilessly in a lonely lane.

    My first breathe was my last one too.
    "What if infanticide is a never ending chain?
    How many buds like me will be buried?

    I lost my rainbow when I was running away from pain,
    Infanticide in our earth creates calamity ;
    Now only black and grey hues are injected in my veins.

    ~ Poojaa

    On Infanticide :)

    Poem form : Magic 9 !

    #infanticide #mirakee #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #writersbay #poetry

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    Let the bud grow, don't bury it please.

    // caption //

    ©Poojaa

  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 22w

    The black keys of my piano is shorter
    than the white keys of my piano.
    Just like the Africans being oppressed
    by the foreigners for being born with white skin.
    Setting boundaries to touch eachother,
    Waging wars and bleeding tears.

    We aren't colourblind; We are made blind by society.

    Fair skinned ladies gets married earlier,
    Dark skinned babies are treated like trash,
    Jobless fathers and food protesters -- son,
    Cornered black skinned student in school.
    Even the beautiful rainbows are formed when
    dark clouds blends with shiny sunlight.
    Faking fair and lovely mask to hide the tan has
    became trend, when they didn't realise black is beauty.

    We aren't colourblind, we are made blind by society.

    Even while playing chess matches, White coins
    are given more priority and should be moved first.
    When all of us live under same home -- sky.
    Don't we have the same red blood running in our veins
    Then, why to discriminate, black and white among us?
    We failed to realize, when discarding dark skin babies.

    We aren't colourblind, we are made blind by society.

    ~ Poojaa
    ......

    On Racial discrimination :)

    Poem form : Bop poem !
    #racism #mirakee #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #writersbay #poetry

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    • The Homeless Monochrome •

    ©Poojaa

  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 23w

    July knocks my door bringing umbrella
    and jerkins along with a box of memories.
    Walking in the path of October, We
    sipped the coffee and gaze at the stars,
    counting the stars, creating constellations.
    Couldn't believe you are one today.

    Its July 1 and I reminisce the flowers
    you gave me, with the note of poem.
    You recited it to me, promising you'll
    stay "forever". Your words fill the voids
    our infinite distance. Your poem hangs
    in the sky, as I gaze at it, and you smile at me.

    I play your favorite playlist to bloom
    my morning, in your favorite transparent
    white cassette. It rains to accompany my
    solitude, creating your bliss. I am drenched
    in memories of us, awaiting you. I wish the
    water would wash away my longingness.

    The dusk breaks and the birds chirp,
    The wind sways heavily. I peek over for
    you out in the balcony, where we uses to
    read books. I search for the lost characters
    in the novel, just like how you left me. The
    turquoise flowers you gave me still blooms
    in my heart.

    ~ Poojaa

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    // I ended the letter with my heart full of grief. I'll count the stars everyday, in memory of you. //

    ©Poojaa

  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 23w

    ~ Poem references:
    • Caterpillar by Christina Rossetti
    • Curious Kids by Gwen Jones
    • Road not taken by Robert Frost
    • Life by Henry Van Dyke
    • I wandered lonely as a cloud by William Wordsworth
    • Ball Poem by John Berryman

    #mirakee #writersnetwork #readwriteunite #writersbay #poetry #life

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    // On life and Poetry //

    I didn't know life,
    when I was 6.
    Until, I met Christina
    who taught me to spin
    and die and to turn again
    like a beautiful butterfly.

    I didn't know life,
    when I was 10.
    Until, I met Jones
    who wanted me to
    be more curious
    and ponder about
    things around me.

    I didn't know life,
    when I was 16,
    Until, I met Robert,
    the one who taught
    me to be wise and
    made me choose
    between the path
    life had offered me.

    I didn't know life,
    When I was 20.
    Until, I met Henry
    he gave me adventures
    to enjoy in life.

    I didn't know life,
    When I was 26.
    Until, I met William
    who gave me a
    bunch of daffodils,
    and helped me seek
    solace and admire
    loneliness.

    I didn't know life,
    Until, I met Berryman
    Loosing things and
    gaining responsibility
    was lingering in my mind.

    // And, that's how I learn life wandering amidst poets and running through mountains called life, because I grew burgeon through poems throughout my entire life ~ poetry //

    ©Poojaa

  • theturquoisemetaphor_ 25w

    ...

    I found some dusty notes from the attic
    Where my pen I own belongs to
    That attic is a place of magic they say
    I didn't knew then
    But now I come to know about the attic,
    where my poetry comes from.
    ~ in between the dusty pages and old pen giving life to new words, my poem is born.

    ©Poojaa