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 Oct 2016 medha
Tea
Usually my thoughts get the best of me
But what they don't tell you is
You are not your mind
You are your emotions
Your thoughts and words manifest the way you think
not what you feel

Ancient civilizations considered words and writing a lower form of communication
because they talked to each other non-verbally
And I agree, however hypocritical that might seem

I agree because no matter how many times I write
I can never quite capture the way my heart feels
About the beauty of a sunset on a busy day
or the way the stars shine brighter on a calm and silent night
About the stray dog who loves you with all his heart because you pet him that one time
or the old man on the street who fights through his days with a smile

I can only talk and write about these things so many times
before they lose meaning in my mind
But my heart remains the same

So maybe all the 'I love you's have become redundant to my brain
but you must believe me when I say
you still have
all of my heart
.
I guess I've changed in a lot of ways.
I've seen the world through different eyes and finally understood everything from another perspective than before.
So I suppose that's why I write a lot less than before.
And that's okay.
 Oct 2016 medha
Kunal Kar
At infinite dust of possibilities,
Light rose and set like a knight,
With its shining armor, the screens were up,
A mere glance of her,
Jumping energy levels,
Leaving traces of her radiant shell.
Ages turned to eons,
Memory of millions of years,
Still crashes to her thought,
The free spirit of every soul,
We were the heart of this universe,
With all the time in this space,
All we wished was to be one,
Collide with the greatest force,
Be one if it meant for one moment's time,
But with all we tried, we were the slaves of laws,
The irresistible lust to touch her once,
Over ages has faded to dust,
As we cycled the shallow mass,
As we raced with the light,
All desires seems clumsy,
When you cling by this lone heart.
They say we can't be together,
Their shallow concepts don't hold us,
For we are lost in this higher law,
For we are the savages reigned by fate.
This crash may never happen,
This tale may end in sorrow,
For this charge run through our veins,
For we won't live with chances,
So we ran with out might,
The stars of our own fate,
With all the speed we grew dim,
Till the dark gulfed us through.
Like a sudden flame, we crashed,
Our love flew through our bodies,
The time could have stopped,
But it was jealous of our sound glow,
Like an neutron star we faced the end,
Incapacitated and burnt,
We fade in this beautiful silence.
I am not a person
I am masterpiece gone awry
Made up of shipwrecks
With salt water leaking through,
Spilling onto the picked-clean bones
Of my beached whale ribcage
I am hollow hollow hollow
Like the knots of a tree
I curl into myself
Filling in the cracks of my carcass
With that too-sweet, too-sticky honey
I rot all through the winter
And then I rot some more
 Oct 2016 medha
LittleFreeBird
Prism
 Oct 2016 medha
LittleFreeBird
All I have to offer you
Is a handful of broken glass
But know that
Every shard
Is inscribed with your name
I'm sorry, love,
If sometimes they cut you
I'm a bit rough around the edges
But if you hold me to light
Just right

I'll shine
 Oct 2016 medha
ethyreal
we are writers, the most masochistic figures among all mankind.
we want to connect deeply with everything and everyone
we want to touch
deeply, softly, roughly. desperately, timidly;
we want our words to make love,
breathe heavily to the blissful moans coming from
the vowels and consonants fornicating with grace
and passion, but with a growling that could make an
A moan'ahhhh' or an
F whisper under his breath, '****'

words and pain and desperation, desire;
our thoughts creating a mass **** of literate *****.

& so we feel,
feel every romantic fever,
every rush of endorphins when lips touch,
body parts grip tighter, tighter,
and hearts mingle,
but only to become a paradox

& so once again we feel,
every chill of remorse
every rush of nausea when toxic lips touch,
the once poisonous distance between our bodies becoming fresh air,
and the gentle embrace of our heart and soul becoming cold shoulders.
only to become a paradox.

but we are writers.
we thrive off uncontrollable emotions,
our very essence continually searching for a muse,
a new way to morph bland reality
into a strange, disgusting, but beautiful new piece of art.
Based off another tweet series
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