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wizmorrison Mar 2021
The ink?
The ink is the tears
For a mourning writer
Who found refuge in writing.

The ink,
A black stained scars
From a writer's heart
Who carve their thoughts in blank pages.

The ink...
It serves as a photograph
From a writer's mind
Through pen and paper.

The ink
Is like a paint,
The brush is the pen and
The canvas is the paper.
An ink is always be a part of us writers.
Apoorva Mar 2020
The idea of people is an insult on human condition.
There's nothing left in my heart than shear disillusion for those who say I'm your friend.
What does a friend means anyway?
Just an equally dissatisfied consumer of society?
I don't know sometimes.
I just wish we could erase memories like we erase our names from chalkboards.
Easy, Swift and effective.
Then again what to do with this beautiful life that is nothing but a bad waste of time.
I wish we could commit suicides while existing, because it's too much for us to take pity of others and their sympathy.
Opinions and questions which are as useless as sweaters in Summers.
It never goes away, it always haunts behind the curtains. Always ready to embrace me when I'm even a bit satisfied with myself.
What is this?
Who is it?
I don't know, and I don't even wish to know.
I'm better at being worse, there's this strange comfort in knowing that you can't be anymore disappointed and dissatisfied than you already are.
Existence is for sissies who sleep in their bedrooms till they're 80.
I'd rather just disappear and refuse to be anything else than what I already am.
Not a poem, but poetry.
aviisevil Mar 2019
bursting through his skin, the insects crawling on the inside found their way to every corner of his soul, and he stood there wrapped in agony of a thousand burning suns, and the moon was ever present as it has ever been.

the battle was lost ages ago but only now the seeds were sprouting from the ends of a forgotten symphony, played by the devil, and groomed by the ills of a broken man.

the light of a thousand burning stars couldn't save him from this darkness, casted by the absence of one mere lonely ball of fire, barely big enough to leave behind a legacy that would survive the approaching end everything there ever was has to bear, and live with.

and in that moment of utter despair and pain, a song was sung, from across the different lands and seven seas, as far as anybody has ever gone, whispered out to the cold by the whisperer, seeking a final good-bye, one last of times, and as many heart beats.

the sound never dies, the swollen winds can find their ways to any who dares to listen, to breathe it in, and swallow it down.

as it did that one night before the spring, at that lonely hour, for the man in the dirt, fighting his brain from exploding.

as he lay there in trance, his face stuck to his knees and arms wrapped in a cloak, to keep the demons away and insects from taking the last of what remains, mumbling to himself broken words left clinging in the deepest corners of his diseased conscience.

at the very end, there's only light, for darkness will lose any meaning, any sight without a spectator, it would cease to exist.

and maybe that was the reason, or maybe it didn't have one, just like a million little tales flowing in every direction, on this excluded part of the universe, in depths of blinding darkness, barely visible to the naked eye.

but whatever it took, the magnificent sun rose as it has done, faithfully, for as long as anything can remember, to feed the tiny little speck of nothing, one more day in the awakening.

the spring had come, and the man was free,
and all that is left was stardust.
I tried to explore many themes here, maybe it's just the depression kicking in, but the kind that inspires to be better. Feed the guilt and evil to the paper, ink the words and find solace in corrupting some other mind.
Secret Whispers Jan 2019
He believes that everything transcribed for a purpose
That every moment that came to be,
Has taken him through impactful checkpoints
Has guided him to me.

We walk around lost a while,
With no physical map.
Just two kids adulting
Cautious not to fall into some kind of trap.

We are on a trapeze now
sensing no fear, we twirl and dance
Not haven’t had much luck in the world of romance
We are not afraid to fall now,
But more so afraid of not taking up on this chance.
I do not know if you are the one for me,
but what I do know is that I want you to be.
Parishmita Jan 2019
His anger blooms
like the amber color flames of a sunflower.
Burning bright and fierily.
And I don't know whether to stare him down
with my vehement warmth,
to see his aesthetically pleasing face
or hide behind the gray clouds
to calm down his rage.
I let go of my anger to calm him down.
Yes, I'm a girl and I'm not trying to justify my body language nor am I positioning the rights of a feminist on the top, but
Yes, I was questioned always, even when I was right.
Subservience was legitimized as my trait ever since I felt this world.
Every time when I was buckled under by his lecherous eyes, I was asked to adjust my dupatta well.
Every action of mine substantiated the height to which I'll hold the name of my family.
I was asked to cross legs while sitting, speak amicably, yet not solitously.
Every time I'd to hide my period stain like a ****** blot.
I was asked to gallop my cramps because letting it out is a bitter sin.
Yes, I get my body scanned by their lewd gaze day in and out even when I put my baggiest of clothes on.
Yes, I'm a girl, and I have beautiful synonyms, call me maal, patola, bomb, *****, *** or a girl? May be, let yourself decide.
Yes, I'm questioned on the extension of the Roti's that I make and the smiles that I couldn't fake.
Yes, I'm a girl and I'll stand, and question your authority if it calls for, call me stubborn. Okay!
Remember, I'm a girl, and if you accuse me of being a feminist if I know, and can raise my tone up and against your authority, humanism needs to be checked then.
Smriti Ranabhat Nov 2017
I am your poem.

From that mountain hole
Too many pains left
And from the island of the vexation
A little pleasure on the journey twinkle They made  a missiles
I was fabricated just below your heart
And I am the part of it

Just by planting a tree farm
Trouble dirts your hands
I was penned from composition of roughness
And I am the stanzza of it

Thunder thrown out of your eyes
They are more expensive than pearls
Drinking  nano water
I was  masterminded
And I am the Masterpiece of it

The debt too scared by itself
Searching for fertilizer tissue
Selling the blood of your own
I was painted from the words of penalty
And I am the same book of it

Momma ! I'm not a poetess
I am your poetry ....
I am the product of plenty of sufferings ,and vexation that momma suffers
I am her words falling and rolling in the real life   ,pattern of her language
And I am her whole book
Jwala Kay Jul 2016
When I love, I exist.

However, when my love is not welcome, I don't cease to stand a fight. I demand where I invest. But I have my ego tuned to know when it's not worth any struggle anymore.
**** boy, you lifted me up and spurned all those butterflies with your touch of lips, and now you are nowhere when I need you the most. I should be able to understand that. Be it that you are simply a coward and that I was blinded or that's denial from my side, maybe. Denial of the evidence of love not being able to carve the same in you. I should have been awake. Awake when your lies mesmerized and dosed me with the temporary pleasure. Now my skin is thick. It had the temperature riot. I may not forget the pain and cry from time to time but I will learn to survive all those li'l heartaches that kills me soft. I will move on. I will smile and greet another stranger. I will win in love and life.

Say peace (ira).
Meghna Gulati Dec 2014
Stubby fingers, in a world where you seek long, artsy hands;
With the thumb that still looks like that of a child.
No, it isn't something that should be envied.
Put my palm to yours and it will not hesitate in feeling small, insignificant, giving you that ego boost you so desperately seek.
But it holds the power to support. It holds within it, the power of perseverance, hard work, and creating.
It does not flinch while it works like yours does. It doesn't shy away. Instead it makes the grip firm, steady. Unwilling to give up so easy.
Hello, hands. I accept you.
Meghna Gulati Nov 2014
How to start caring
For every person, for every being, for every pea under the mattress struggling to breathe.
2. How to be nice even though you don’t want to be
How to appreciate people’s existence
How to be a people pleaser
How to incorrectly judge character.
3. How to plaster a fake smile on your face and say everything’s okay. 
4. How to forget months entirely.
You will sit down at your desk in a vain attempt to get some work done, but it will accomplish nothing except making you feel hollow, worthless, and dead. Your mind will try to fight it for the first few weeks, until it becomes a routine.
5. How to lose yourself.
and constantly ricochet between desperately wanting to find yourself, and never wanting to meet your own eyes again, because you know they’ll be filled with disgust.
6. How to not be modest when people compliment you.
They say modesty becomes a way of life. That when you receive so many compliments, you don’t want to seem like a *****, and so you brush them away with modesty. But when you receive only rude, snarky comments from the people you love the most, any compliment will seem like an alien word, and while your words brush it away in a fake attempt at modesty, your brain will become recluse once more and fill your mind with self-hatred.
7. How to say no to getting pictures clicked.
There will come a time, when every memory, every moment that needs to be savored will fill you with dread, because that means yet another second you must stare at your own face while you try to hide the feeling of disdain.
8. How to disappoint people.
9. How to shrug off days when you attempt suicide, as bad days.
10. How to feel and not feel at the same time.
11. How to turn your body against you.
You will feel lost within your own body as you puke once, twice. Your body will stop reacting. Your head will stop responding. It won’t work like it’s supposed to. It will pound as it tells you, that this is not who you’re supposed to be. You will be scared that the fibers of your body have started hating you, as a person. That you hate the fibers.
As the world will disown you, your body will, too.
12. How to go from social to socially awkward.
13. How to increase heat tolerance in summers.
As you litter your body with prominent scars every night, sitting inside that washroom, eventually you will run out of places that cannot be seen, and in daytime, as you put up your facade, you wouldn’t want to relive your nights, and so observe as you shift from tank tops to quarter sleeves to turtle necks while people wonder what the **** is wrong with you.
14. How to stop caring.
There will come a point when whatever they say will cease to exist, and your body will provide enough fuel for your depression. They will finally start noticing. You will finally stop caring.

— The End —