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Esther Apr 19
i hate these poems
they're all sad
but they always come back home
and i'm a sucker for things that stay
i really do hate my poems. this is getting tiring now.
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2019
A wise man once told, nothing.
I listened to his silence.

Then the same man told, "write what you feel."
I honored.

Writing has always brought me comfort, the way that sunlight brings warmth. Being in the alchemy of words writing started in order to get lost, and to be found again. Journey has never been a straight line, but what if one doesn't know where he/she is going, how can he/she be lost? Seeking peace through the ink, I walk the path that I am on, a journey through time embracing the balance to conquer hope, fear and dreams, even if sometimes it lead to nowhere. But still that nowhere has been my home.When nothing seems to make sense, writing emerge as a freedom to redefine self, reflecting what can't seem to resist, thus there is always some truth behind what have been written.

Into an abyss of innate emotions being mused by the nature, I tried to discover everything in a real essence of time. Truly I'm an observant dreamer craving for higher understanding but the spur of the fleeting thoughts mirror itself somehow in a written form. This trails may have a happy beginning, or a happy middle, or a happy ending even when there are no easy roads. We are unique in our expressive outlet, here I prefer simplicity to connect, with so little words to convey artwork message.

I welcome critique and suggestions, only if  you could read my mind, my apology. If you don’t really know me yet, you will, turning the pages till the last stanza, I am me, I am you, I am mere words, a admirer of beauty that is seen through the soul, in both humanity and in the  nature. If something inside invokes your senses, awaken your mind and spirit, I will be there and yet I may not.Travel with me across the examined life to experience a difference, somewhere away to the places of healing vibes, but the journey will be far from over.
Thank you for having me.

The Traveller
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Writing is being
Author's Note: Preface from the trials of the examined life.
Being close to everything.
ogdiddynash Jul 2019
preface.  
majestic adjectives of contrary harmonies,
adverbs in adversity that modify our satisfactions,
gut punch our eyes, scramble the taste buds,
now inoperable, incapacitated to distinguish
what is disturbed - what is sweet - what is impossible.
my days ending is nearer to my god than thee,
the crumblings of what I’ve got left,
stale panko crumbs,
here come they in 1000 radium-tipped projectiles of
serious humorous self-destruction,
gifted to you few itinerant followers
brave enough to follow me into the deeps of
radioactive incomprehension,
in no particular disorders
a thousand times
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2018
Why can’t I write anything?
Why I need to write something?

Between those two questions, I found my way to ink my thoughts being fascinated with words addressing a soul inside the human body. Being a part-time dreamer, full-time realist I tried to reflect human psyche, social-issues, clinical journey, and so forth with an interdisciplinary approach. White Words invariably explores the hidden depths of a human, set free by either circumstance or the truth. With every new day I felt writing is not just an art, It’s a social engineering with thought exploring the boundaries of our mind. Words could be a medium to achieve inner peace, sometime embraced with an autobiographic element. Nevertheless it needs to be visualized with holistic lens, being near and far off from the distance with curiosities to get the true meaning of it.

All forms of arts are work in progress, where artist tries to reflect the craftsman’s imaginations and emotions, other time control it with an armor and conceals things using words easy to say in the comfort of expressive outlet. Honestly, I never cared about getting it right, now the same thing is inspiring me in the form of catharsis to make a free verse of a poetic trail.

I feel blessed to be around the people I've come to admire.  I remember mom for providing much needed optimism and endless devotion. There is always something new to learn and there is a constant effort to evolve with a better reflection. I want to thank all those who enjoy my writing, and open enough to hone honest  criticism. I  am  accountable for all the errors in bringing this up.

Let the White Words be the life to live by. Until we are blind to foreseeable future, live until we die, laugh until we cry and write what can’t be said. Lastly for a moment just imagine, how good it is to have a voice and being heard, and heeded.
Genre: Experimental
Theme: 2nd Anthology Press Ready, Blue Canvas White Words
what’s worse than death
is not living life

we are eaten by the
trifling technicalities,
like rabid weasels
and assimilated into
the void of non-existence

and when the day comes
that our hair
has all turned grey
there will be nothing left
to die inside our hollow shells

death is not the end

but the beginning

our lives are just the preface
and we tend to skip over it
just to get to the good stuff

so when death
comes knocking
at your door with
a singing telegram

she’ll be disappointed
Nikhil Acharya Jul 2014
It was a cold August morning
       and the wind, it sighed.
The mist wrestled the light;
       valiantly, but in vain it tried.
The smartest man of the world
       took one look at it and cried,

How?
       The fiends looked so innocent when they lied.
What?
       The ambitious, so callous when they stride.
When?
       The pious, so righteous when they deride.
Why?
       The pure, so broken, they complied.

He hatched his  plot
       threw trivialities aside.
He dared with a vengeance,
       his actions belied.

How he healed the hurt!
      And he'd hardly even tried.
What a way he sated the rapacious!
     Into harmony they had vied.
When he showed honor to the honorable,
     he was wary not to toe their pride.
And the pure,
     they died.

'Why, then do I now not wonder why?'
     unto the light and mist he cried.
It was a cold August morning
     and the wind, it sighed.

— The End —