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At night, stars are trying to being perfect by twinkling.
Moon just keeping his stunning look.
But she who always being herself born with dark circles and having thin spectacles is still writing poetry by using her untidy heart...
Flow with your creative spirit....
Hazel grey Jul 5
I've been bleeding out words
Realizing that its just a pointless scribble.
I've been reciting poems into the void
Hoping someone would decipher it.
Anshika Raj Apr 15
Handed down through the ages,
Humanity in hearts and reverance for the sages.

This place is more like a heaven on Earth,
Myriad of religions are taken here birth.

Our emperors were too kind to invade any country,
Million of channels telecast it's documentary.

Jai Hind and Satyamev Jayte resides in our heart,
Our sand handles both a motor and a cart.

The holy Ganga flows from the bottom of Himalayas,
So is worshipped for being called a gift like Matthias.

The Himalayan is fit like a crown on our mother's head,
Climatic variations and monsoon rainfall are so evenly spread.

World's economy has an immense eminence of zero,
Invented by Aryabhatta; Ramanujan- the Maths hero.

Bhagat Singh, Laxmi Bai had been an epitome of strength,
Education is vastly spread and immeasurable in length.

Variety of raiment is seen in every state,
Twenty two languages and each with a feel of sedate.

Vendors working daily amidst tumults on roads,
Poetry scribbled by poet as their respectful odes.

Colours of rainbow is reflected here well,
Luscious cuisines grabs heed by the smell.

Geeta, Qur'an, Adi Granth and Bible,
At different hours, they worship their idols.

Vaisakhi, Christmas, Holi and Eid
we stand together as a pillar in every need.

Writings are not only read in books,
But scripted on walls, painting on hooks.

Folk arts, tribal arts, feet beating on rhythm,
Dance forms are many, depicting their vision.

Here, women are treated equal to men,
Delhi and Mumbai got their place in the list of wen.

We treat our guests as the heavenly God,
One can visit here either by plane or brod.

Weddings are held by following every ritual,
Our ways may differ but our hearts are mutual.

With so much of glory do not mistake it as Neverland,
As this Golden bird does not fly but stays on land.
Ingram Feb 12
I’ve been trying to string words together
in hopes a poem will be the result,
but all I have is a page of scribbles
as it laughs like an intellectual insult.
Aditya kumar Jan 17
Wait!
Where are you going?
Can i ask you something?
How have you been?
Sorry i wasn't there
When you were trapped within
When you were suffering
From your darkest fear
Scribbling the past
Along with your tears.

Sorry i wasn't sure
About you and your pain
That your blood
Still suffer those tapered veins,
My touches has now turned into scars
I know you were born
And named as a star.

I deliberately imprinted my thoughts
Into your mind
So that one day
You could be mine
I waited,
Waited for a while
Waited for you
To come back into my life,
Still waiting
To heal your pain
Peace your brain
Trust me
I can make your wings...fly again.
B D Caissie Sep 2019
You may take our words and make them yours.

But our fiery spirit is what makes a true writer soar.

We scribble with our hearts, like so many who’ve come before.

For most it’s therapy for their internal raging wars.

Our words are endless like waves crashing along the shore.

Slowly eating at your conscience receding more and more.

Like the rising and setting of the sun our words will endure.

Therefore armed with our pens it’s you we feel sorry for.
Jason Drury May 2019
Scribble,
Scribble.
The etchings,
of a dreamer.

Who's quill he,
quibbles with.

Grasping at an idea,
that he hydrates
with ink.

In wrathful vengeance,
he abuses parchment,
with a sharpened wood spear.

Drinking his creation,
tweaking the taste,
that's almost bitter.

Slash, ****,
cross out.
He is vexed,
about the ending…
Faiza Arakkal Nov 2018
Today I lie here
Naked and Numb
Waiting for you to be a blanket
That covers me up.
Wrap me up,
With your warmth
And I shall show you
How long I have
Craved for you.

Today I lie here,
Naked and Numb
Waiting for you.
Nick Stiltner Oct 2018
Have you ever tried to draw a picture
without lifting the pencil from the paper?

One line, uninterrupted and looping
in on itself, swerving in arcs and switching
directions at sharp points.

The line grows at a constant rate
but the vectors change, how the wind is blowing
and the wobbling arrow of the compass.

A head hanging closely over the paper
and a hand pressing the pencil with trembling
force against the desk.

Eyes squinted, focused intently on the next
angle as the lead begins to tremble and crack.
Just a little more, just one more turn
the piece hasn't come together yet.

The timer beeps its descending count
10 to 9 and 8 to 7.
Sweat condenses on the brow
and the lead shatters
as it lets out its electronic shriek.

Now lift your head, trace the line with your finger
where it loops and why,
and when the work is done you will realize
where the line drifted away
from the hazy picture you had in your mind.

A scribble dons the paper,
the line intersecting randomly
and turning when it reached the edge,
influenced by the frame, not your whim.
IPM Aug 2018
So many notes
I've written over time
and perfect
perfect
perfect
my craft
till' there's nothing left
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