Miraquill
...
CONSENT IS VERBAL not visual.
yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_
let go to let in
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I have lost it,
The sweet scent of a blossoming immature bud.
I have lost it,
The soft warmth of my sunshine's rub.
I have lost it,
The exciting shiver of a cold shower.
I have lost it,
The pulchritude of the fallen bewildered blood-red leaves.
I have lost it,
My sheltered cozy drapings in an outgoing iniquitous winter.
All I have now are the lost seasons.
~~~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~~~~~~~~•~~~~~~~~~~
Glossary-
•iniquitous: grossly unfair and morally wrong.
@writersnetwork @miraquil
#writersnetwork #miraquil
#abuse #assualt #awareness #sexualabuse #sexualassault #seasonsThe Lost Seasons
(A poem on Sexual Assualt and Abuse Awareness)
©yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_ -
Quoté
•What is lost is just merely drifted away to be given to someone else.
•Mornings with no expectations and goals are the best omes and lead to a sleepy night at ease.
©yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_ -
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It scares me.
The feeling of emptiness does.
It loves me.
The feeling of sadness does.
The lights are now dimming
From the day the lad was born.
The lights are truly of the lad
For the lad is dimming alike.
It feels fake and dimwit
The exciting urge to grow up as a child
It feels regretful
The saddening urge to grow down into a child.
My lights are dimming
And I have no choice.
I want choices to let my lad decide
To choose the light with the wisest light.
#ofsadness #wod #dimming #lights @miraquill @writersnetworkDimming Lights
©yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_ -
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I don't fit in these streams of people
I don't like this straight of a path
I don't love one or the other of the genders
I don't love genders, I love people.
Gay I have been in my happy musings everyday
Gay I have been in my plays with dolls everyday
Straight I have been in my friendship on the first school day
Straight I have been in my family's plans for my marriage everyday
But alone I have been for a long time hell
But alone as a couple I have been loving my parts everyday
But lone I have been in my path to preach love
But lone I have been in my identity of none.
#love #selflove #gay #straight #bisexual #one #oneself #couple #anaphora #wod
@writersnetwork
@miraquillThe bisexual couple of oneness
©yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_ -
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I must take my spear of Picasso to Einstein.
I must be knighted akin to this world.
So they say.
''Picasso is a weak unstable ruler,
Einstein is strong and constant.
No matter the origin of the forge of your spear,
Leave your lands and now move on.''
They still say.
"The country you dream to serve is weak,
Go to the mighty ruler and bequeath your spear.
Picasso can be just but not for the way you serve,
Einstein is fair, you must serve him, don't you dare!"
So they keep saying.
"Truth be told, Mine spear is forged by Dieu solemn to serve none but all
I do interest in The Picasso Forge of My Spear and I will to knight in Einstein's wars.
But Serve I shall to none of these rulers
For I plan to build a kingdom of my own stead
Of knights alike with no direction at all
But trying to find a place in the profound octet with no walls"
So I say.
"Have you lost your head?! You maniac rot.
In this world, thy spear is worthless with no ruler at all
For never has been a spear so mighty
Encompassing the octet with no walls"
So they shouted.
I shut mine ears and tears and shed,
"Is that the solemn reason that
I must take My Spear of Picasso to Einstein
Once and for all?"
* The curtain closes and the tale stops *
-------------------------------------------------
Glossary-
•Octet(here): It referes to the collection of the 8 planar directions of the world (North, North-East, East, South-East, South, South-West, West and North-West )
#play #tale #einstein #spear #shakespeare #picasso #life #word @miraquill @writersnetworkTake My Spear of Picasso to Einstein
©yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_ -
The Lit Dyslexia
Oh! how beautiful is the time
The stars are now out of shine
Let's drink some wine
Hoorah! Don't whine!
The dyslexic have it nice
The world can be rainbow rice
Or an art of unmatched price
Ahh, let's repeat the following thrice!
Oh! how beautiful is the time!
The dyslexic have it nice
The sun is a lit dark mime
And the moon is a darkened lit dice.
©yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_ -
Blue is mine
Blue is cold
Blue is old
Blue is primary
Blue is gloom
Blue is life
Blue is the mellow sky
Blue is beautiful
Blue is mine.
©yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_ -
Sky: Grey to Blue
I wish
That
The Sky
Is
Not
That
Usual Grey
But
The Blue
That
I wish
©yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_ -
Life
Starting from the very moment
The cold breeze fakes warmth with love
Until the ice rains death
©yoyoshatalkswalksnrocks_
-
Reflection
Leap a phrase, like fickle youth.
Breath a phase, like bitter truth.
Listen to what the wind says
While it gushes down your veins
and knocks off your shores,
Until your vocals scream names
that echoes back to you.
Often you sound like the wind
struck in your throat
yet the songs are red enough
to bear a wrecked melody.
Listen to what the storm compels,
in dizzy nights and frivolous noons
when the sun drowns into oblivion
and ruins starve in bits and parts.
For all you feel is a raging fire
flowing in you yet laughing at you
As you stand before a mirror
and your clothes shiver in terror.
Amusing, a murder feels to you
Yet your fingers tremble to accept.
You're a villain of your own story
That's how you lose a life, worth living.
©moitreyee -
after_life
13w
Monk
Up in the monastery, there lives a monk.
A monk who wears a robe clad in white
A common occurrence to be found there
But with the robe, he puts a white mask
Keeping his face a secret, even to his brethren.
The monk arrived 6 winters back,
When the snow started melting and a certain flower bloomed.
The monk doesn't speak, some say he's mute
Some say it's a part of his ritual, a pious man claimed.
A monk whose face and words are a secret.
Curious, but what if the monk isn't a male?
Can it be, SHE is trespassing into a male sanctuary
To live a certain way, to see for herself
What makes these men so holy.
©after_life -
unknown doors
shadow of my thoughts
scare me as I'm only my faults
yet I'm comforted as I walk
I guess I'm all talk
Should I put on locks?
©shadowofthoughts_ -
Blood platelets and other things
The fever climbs up,
up the overrated human faces
like dead beat poetry
in a spoonful of puffed rice.
Metaphors, cliches and similia line up,
there are tougher catches,
like that zeugma in a rape of a lock.
103°F and I am conversing
with three alter egos in different time zones.
I taste of a hospital already.
Send me to one, too.
A psychiatric unit.
Am I romanticising?
Oh boy! I wish I could.
104°F but the thermometer is moody,
it wants to give me a scare.
The thermometer doesn't know though,
Consciousness is trepidation.
The woman, the old one next to me tries to talk,
I, in my postmodern apathy and aftereffect of placid injections look at her as if she were some unicorn, too pink for my range, too delicate that I may punch that face.
But then, whose face?
Her son never visits her.
Perhaps, I don't despise her.
I despise her tragedy.
Blood drips on the overused trousers from the overused channels of my underused hands.
Comprehension, the agony of man or the non-binary peculiar colour palette with a turquoise head, an eye-candy for a grey ward.
The air is scanty inside the mosquito net.
The mosquito has done the dead.
I wake up with malaria and poetic inspiration in Darjeeling.
Suddenly, the sister in the ward says, "Bed No. 8, go take a bath."
I walk to the bathroom with woobly legs,
jaundice inside my toe nails.
The other day I saw on someone's regular 'Whatsapp' status that an old man was beating his bucket hard on the September's concrete.
People were taping that, cheering on.
He kept saying, "This doesn't break, this sells."
Why is a living worth a joke on a status?
If I faint and hit my head on one of these buckets and my head breaks, I will die with the exact memory of humanity~
That, my friend, will be a memory of inhumanity.
I know my friends will come see me during the interval of this film.
Her son will not because he thinks any disease of the vagina is because the woman stepped out the whore house.
I boil.
She eats her porridge better than mine.
I lack appetite.
She adjusts my mosquito net.
Resilience, I hate the guts of this woman.
She complains but lives.
When they bring me home,
my privilege jumps traffic lights.
Kolkata is raining, sweating like a pig,
Nah, too raw for the artist eh?
I do not have sympathy for mothers,
or sisters,
or wardens,
or gardeners in whore houses,
or in the dingy toilets of hospital wards,
because I write poetry and name it 'Chloroquine'.
They simply gulp it with water.
Chloroquine, no political correctness and Kolkata,
huge dumps that will hurt,
like constipation.
And, it must hurt you right where it should.
©accismus
