Miraquill
Hands
I am tired of my hands
Constantly pulling at my hair
I'm tired of my hands
Scratching at the scabs
Making them bleed
I'm tired of my hands
Moving, moving and moving
And I'm tired and tired and tired
Of feeling like my hands are the only thing
Keeping me sane
They drive me insane
My eccentricity takes root in them,
My hands move and scratch and pull
And they get tired too
I'm tired of my hands
Reaching for my cellphone
Every other second
I am tired
That I can't seem to focus
On the little things
On the big ones
That seem to constitute life
I'm tired of my hands
Measuring how much of my waist
Fits in my palms
The loathing that comes after it
Is not worth my tears at all
And I'm tired of my hands
Writing and un-writing
Poetry
That I'll never share
With people who see
My hands moving and moving and moving
I'm tired
I'm so tired
But it's so scary to be this tired
Of my hands
They are only hands
But - , I'm so scared
Of my hands stopping
Of not moving, not moving, not moving at all
Of clenching my fists and trying to breath
And trying to be better, better and better
And still failing
For my hands seem like the only thing
Still holding on to this fluttering, fragile thing
Called life
I could kill it, for all I know
Let it go like it doesn't mean a thing to me
But my hands still hold on
For that is the only thing they have learnt
To keep moving and moving and moving
Until I'm about to fall
And my hands
They are the only thing
That hold on and on and on
©wasted_sparks
wasted_sparks
Me and my summer blues and my winter greys; all of me and all of mine, is nothing but a metaphor.
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wasted_sparks
84w
Read MoreBack to writing shitty, unedited poetry in the middle of exams. (Why can't I change? I wish I could.)
Bonfire People
There's a bonfire
Burning and burning
On the edges of an evening;
A twilight transcended
By a moon that dims.
It burns on a sandy trail,
A palm tree square,
In the middle of chaos and emptiness,
It burns;
And there are matchstick people around it
With matchsticks in their hands,
Matchboxes, to strike and burn.
And the matchsticks burn;
The people burn within,
Ashes of dreams and
Ashes of memories and
Ashes of everything they have been.
The bonfire is a matchstick,
When seen from a distance;
And the people are a part of the dance
Of light and shadow.
And the people,
They talk and they talk
And something in them burns,
Flickering embers
And dying fire flames,
And they dance around the
Fireflies they have trapped in bottles.
And the bonfire burns
And burns and burns.
But the bonfire is only a
Flame, when seen from the distance;
And there is no warmth-
No warmth in the cold of the shadows.
And the shadows, they creep,
Closer to the light,
Closer and closer;
Until they die and die,
Until the darkness is
The only thing that survives.
©wasted_sparks -
Memory
This memory is trapped in a polaroid picture
And I'm not attached to it;
That's what I tell myself
As I hide it behind my stack of books,
The rusty clock,
A letter wrote and never sent;
The same way I hide my tears whenever I look at it.
Those smiles never come back to me.
This memory is a talisman that
I tie around my neck
And I wear it everywhere I go.
I tell myself it doesn't matter
As much as I think it does.
But I touch my neck everytime
I wake from my half-dreamt dream.
I am scared it will fall away
And I'll never remember it again.
This memory is a half-prayer
Said in a half-whisper,
Tucked away into a half-broken treasure chest
That I push away into the deepest confines
Of my heart,
Of the closet,
In half-darkness,
Never to be opened again;
But a constant reminder of loss,
Of beginnings that never ended,
Of a million years encompassed in a few days.
This memory is a tragic end;
A gentle hurt, a rebuke to myself.
I press against it
Like fingers against a wound.
Like molten wax dripping onto marble floors,
I melt away into the soft ache of it.
It rages in my mind,
A hurricane.
Turning to a mild rain,
A drought,
A forgotten thought,
Fading darkness to make way for the morning light,
Until it is no more.
©wasted_sparks -
Metanoia
I dig early graves for my dreams
And as I lay them to rest,
I write epitaphs on my skin
And plant an oak over the ruins.
I shroud sadness in the mist
And leave the pain to heal.
All I ask for is forgiveness,
Soft fingers on burning skin,
A soothing lullaby,
Until I finally fall asleep.
Moments have frozen
And thawed in my dreams.
A world that crashes and burns
Will be rebuilt
But this agony never seems to leave.
It makes a path in my bloodstream,
A home in my skin
And my face is a mask
Of jaded beliefs.
The mirror screams
Every time I look at it.
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
Pathetic.
I write sad poems on repeat
And no one wants sadness;
There's enough of it.
I tell my mind to be at ease
But things don't go
The way I wish they did.
So, if this is another sad poem,
I'll make myself read
A hymn to a God I don't believe in;
A book I forgot, pressed beneath
A thousand pages filled with other poems
That you'll never read.
So, if this is another sad thought,
I'll cross it out of my list
And I'll begin;
Over and over again, until
I believe,
I deserve to exist.
©wasted_sparks -
Pride
I see the world in greyscale,
A tilting stage in my mind's eye;
This is a dystopia, most days.
Other days, they say,
This is a phase.
You'll get over it.
Does it matter if I etch my name,
In rainbow colours
On the pocket of my ripped jacket?
Does it count if I wear my heart on my sleeve,
As I take deeper breaths before diving in?
If this is blasphemy,
If this is my crime,
Will you lay me down
In a grave so cold
That the light won't be found?
Will you let flowers grow
Or will you rip them out?
What if I don't show it?
What if I write pages after pages
On a diary that I hide;
Beneath my pillow,
Between my books,
Under a dying tree,
With a dead dream?
Would it spare me the agony
Of being different?
Would you scribble my name on papers
Only to burn them and rob my name of a forever?
Would you still bind my hands,
Until they can no longer write?
Would it really be so terrible
To die with pride?
©wasted_sparks -
Wallflower
You;
With your old scars and new stories.
Rain on your roof and Robbers playing on repeat.
Setting in your sadness like every sunset you have missed;
You and your watercolour dreams.
A rumour and a dead rose,
Your heartbeat is just an erratic breath.
You;
With the boys, mistaken and misunderstood;
A loner on the fields.
Hemingway quotes etched on your wrist,
A misted inkling of a misplaced memory;
Tear stains on your pillow and the diary that you hid.
Half-smoked memories on the pages of your own history,
The half-baked excuses that you weave
And the lies that you believe.
You;
With your sad smiles and sad eyes,
Shouldering through your own agony,
With your own misgivings and a subdued spirit.
Shuddering in the cold like half-dead leaves
In the dead of autumn, on half-filled streets;
Lingering like the last notes being played by a pianist
On nights that seem too bleak.
You;
With your silence and your piercing screams.
Maybe you should talk.
Maybe you should forget about it.
©wasted_sparks -
wasted_sparks
114w
Read More
This is why I don't rhyme as I try to write a poem. I am absolutely horrible at it.
Tragic
The ships do not dock in the morning mists
As the sunset of a buried past persists;
And the darkness enveloping this sad town
Is just a colour darker than brown.
Drenched in its sour, stagnant memory,
I think of how poetry has abandoned me.
I write words between the blue lines on my wrist.
A stumbling thought; it lives and ceases to exist.
And all the rhymes were only a facade, unhinged;
In this burning town with edges so singed.
Drowning in the stupor of my own melancholy,
I think of how poetry has abandoned me.
My whims sway in favour of my pain
And my thoughts fall like the piercing rain,
On my skin, on the fizzling flames
Of a burning story of forgotten names.
As my thoughts fall into the depths of agony,
I think of how poetry has abandoned me.
©wasted_sparks -
Halves
We are only half people sometimes;
With half dreams and half hopes
Burning at the edges of our vision.
We give up on our Gods
And let go of our beliefs
And turn to the dust ridden crevices
Of old libraries;
Turn the faded, crinkled pages
Of books that smell like
Gentle mountains and rolling fields,
Tumultuous seas and rough waters.
We fill up our halves with poetry
That talk of weak humans,
Weaker ambitions,
The morbid appreciation of everything dark,
Of the difference between
Loneliness and solitude.
We paint the remains of ourselves
With faded browns
And let down roots into
Parched lands of our forgotten memories.
As dandelions grow in our brokenness,
We wish upon dead stars,
Resurrect old dreams
And start anew.
We grow into our halves
Until we are more than just half people
With half-lives;
With twice the love to give.
©wasted_sparks -
Arcane
I look up at the colours in the sky;
You have melted, a transcendental accident
On the tips of the woebegone winds.
And you're lilac
And you're ivory
And you're blue
And as the mist sweeps away
Memories of you,
I think I'd like to remember you;
Like this,
Serene, drifting.
An ancient hymn ringing in the crevices
Of a weatherworn monastery;
A falling dream, cascading,
Untimely and unruly.
Petals crushed and flowers, dying;
And all I can remember is,
You.
A tapestry on chipping paint;
A broken heart put together again.
And if this is the way it goes,
I will forgive and forget.
You move on;
Indecipherable, untamed.
I'll write poems for you on good days.
And until it aches,
Like it always does,
I'll keep my peace and
Hide away.
©wasted_sparks -
Art
I wonder if you have paint stains on your fingers.
Are there splatters on your floor,
A rainbow in your mind,
A casket of broken crayons
Hidden away beneath your pillows?
Maybe, you tuck a pencil behind your ear,
Push your hair back
And concentrate,
Because you think the face is some kind of wrong;
The eyes aren't deep enough.
I wonder if you leave behind half-finished pictures
And ink stained passages
Between pages of your journal,
That you seldom open
Because you're scared to think about
How you think about yourself.
I wonder if you make clay sculptures
Only to let them shatter,
Like your weak, weak heart.
Are your dreams in pastel
Or are they gloomy greys,
The dimmest of blues?
Is it sad
When the colours don't exist
Outside of your mind?
And is it wonderful
To be loved all wrong,
To be build of hopes that never see
The first sunlight of spring,
To be kept together by people in such ways?
But then,
I wonder if you smile at your reflection,
In your splintered mirror,
In your darkened room,
In your little corner;
Where you pin your favourite pictures
With rusted thumbtacks
And fairy lights, golden,
And I wonder if the people in those pictures
Have pieces of your heart.
I wonder,
If you're loved enough.
I wonder if you love enough;
And maybe, you do,
For who would paint a million pages
In shades of red, the way you do.
©wasted_sparks
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sanyogita
207w
Read MoreBurned herself in dark,
Unable to hear howling demons,
There she died dead and dark.I saw a tear drop on my mirror this evening,
Sitting in front of the mirror I heard her screaming from the other side,
Her eye sockets were glued to a pale face, she didn't blink her eyes even once.
Vacantly looking into hollows of the past she sat just opposite to me,
Her hair were decorated with weeds,
And she was playing with wooden masks tied to ropes.
She got up and tried fitting herself in a box
Seemed as if she's creating a dungeon to sleep,
And before shutting the lid of box she said I fear light too much and I can breathe only in dark, that's where demons don't howl.
And suddenly there was darkness all over the mirror she went inside to give herself peace,
But the tear stuck on mirror fell through my eyes .
©sanyogita -
nightwriter_i
214w
The uprising.
Here and there you roam and find a gruffy voice which teaches you the harsh realities of life.
Suddenly, you find yourself in a forest, surrounded by barb wires and within that you witness a bird flying above all hindrance.
Midway in your life, you get bored of all materialistic ideologies and try to calm the seven deadly sinners within you.
The time when you don't care about the lyrics anymore, you enjoy the music.
Thats uprising for you.
©nightwriter_i -
l grew up only to find
a house
to keep
all my worries
locked in; silence
but they said
l need to get out more -
_nishtha
216w
When the sky was the color of ink,
with a smattering of stars
shining in their wake;
a little girl looked up
and wished for a beautiful day.
-n -
_nishtha
216w
With the sun shining overhead,
green grass beneath our feet,
the storms residing within our hearts
were somehow at peace.
-n -
nightwriter_i
216w
Read More
I am worse at what I do best
And for this gift I feel blessed
- Nirvana
Ignore my idiosyncratic use of punctuation.
@writersnetwork @readwriteunite @mirakee @mirakeeworldSweat.
The daily bickering amends into the opposite, and this was proven by the budding entrepreneur Mihir,
who now tries to work more than what his capicity holds. Maybe this was something to show to the world or maybe a wish beckoned his dreams.
"Maaa is the breakfast ready?" asked Mihir, with an unusual streak on his head. Now this is his routine to get up at 7am listen to John Denver or Bob Dylan that too according to the written schedules. On Mondays John Denver would pop up on his phone's display screen with an alligator smile and would keep Mihir's mood light and fresh. On Tuesdays Dylan paid tribute to his ears and made him look more stern. He loved to listen to both on alternate days.
To be perfect every single time is tough. To sleep when one feels drowsy is like giving in to the norms of the nature. Mihir was different, he and his friend Music, made friends with sweat. The one and only thing that touched his heart and soul while he listened to hundreds of songs at the odd hour of the day.
How good is it to be against the current?
The rift between the old and the new was increasing and few events fueled the spark.
Mihir's mother was a prima donna of suspicion, the previous day she went on a date with her sugar daddy, to fulfill her desires leaving behind a 27 year old dreamer and the heir to her husband's throne.
And I heard her asking her daddy
"Do you wanna warg in? Because my son is a cripple, he can't handle such a load."
She used to lock Mihir inside the home whenever she visited someone. And that day when she returned, she was shocked. Mihir was drenched in sweat from top to bottom. Her instincts tempted her to believe that Mihir had masturbated all day long.
What else would you expect from passed down mindsets?
" This is your breakfast, eat it and drink enough water" said the mother. She couldn't ignore his face and the dripping drops of sweat that shined like diamonds.
"Are you nervous?"
"What? Oh, the sweat, its because of suffocation, I closed the windows last night because it was windy outside".
"You know, you are weird and an undeserving cripple"
"Yes I know and thanks for the breakfast I will get going, bye "
Mihir never loses his cool, he took his headphones and as he was climbing down the stairs a voice stratled his senses.
"Take this napkin, it will help"
And the difference ended with grins on both sides.
©nightwriter_i -
Tonight, I cannot write,
I am too caught up in a web
Of silhouettes and silences
Too lost in a labyrinth
Of thoughts born no sooner than they die...
Tonight, I cannot write,
Tonight, my words have left me.
©thatbluelight -
divyagautam
216w
Read More@writersnetwork @sharewriting @readwriteunite
@wasted_sparks I tried to channel some of your whimsical magical-ness :)
#writersnetwork #starsI stand at the edge of the train and feel the wind in my face.
The onslaught of smells and sounds as I speed by different towns makes me feel like I am being tossed from one world to another.
I slip my hand out and the wind slaps across it in attempt to say hello.
I wonder why the winds are always traveling away from me, they speed past me, and I forge on as well.
The sky is cloudy tonight, grayness colors the galaxy, its blue hues shyly hiding behind black masks that promise a spell of rain.
And if I close my eyes, I can hear the roar of the engine, the breeze breathing in my ear, and the stars sighing as they rest amidst the clouds.
And I can feel nature lull me into a drowsy slumber, where promises of harmony are kept, and destinations are found not sought.
And so the journey begins.
©divyagautam -
kairos_
216w
Read More"Balancing on a tightrope,
'twas a thin line between envy and jealousy,
The miserly envy pushed me on the other side,
As it also turned out to be jealous of jealousy's riches."
The lady in question is jealousy. :)Jail, Us? Naah!
Again I met that familiar lady,
Who always smelt of burning coal.
Like any other day it was,
Set out to do the undoings of my soul.
I pushed my best friend from the terrace,
So no one could ask who won the rat race!
I stripped off a handsome flesh only from above,
To own the lass all called their one true love.
Few shots drunk and fired for coins many,
Was I a thief to work hard to earn my neighbour's every penny?
Tore a passerby's smile off and tried it on the way,
Stuck some of my tears as a reward to keep their happiness at bay.
Today that lady succeeded hence,
In writing down yet another of my blazing legacy.
As people daily walk past muttering,
"Wasn't he the one who smelt of jealousy?"
- T.S. -
divokost
216w
Read MoreIt is sometimes impossible for one to just read and walk away by something which moves their heart and makes a place for itself in that moved heart, and so one stops and reads again, and again, till the essence of those words is mixed with his blood and one can no longer part with them. To believe deep within our human layers of feelings of compassion, that life existing, outside of human form has equal right over life, and that we must feel it and know that each and every form of life, is precious regardless of what it can or cannot do for human needs. I have come to see myself as a part of nature, undivided , unabridged and every time over my individuality I choose to be one with it, rather than being distanced by my human ties.
©divokost
Here I share with my mirakee family, a similar thing which moved my heart long ago. It's a quote from Arne Naess, a Norwegian philosopher who coined the term Deep Ecology and was a prominent intellectual connected to the Environmental Movement of late twentieth century..
