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death feelings humans Lessons life Love people personal Poem story

A ballad for the love of death.

By: Ashar

I heard a sound, as faint as her tone

The sun was as shy, the river was nigh

For the world was in a spiral, a story for one’s dawn

I drag by my reflection across the sands of her bly

.

Caught my eye, bright as the sun flickering by the ocean

Fresh as her soul was the dress she wore, ashen

The air gazing through my chest spout out alive

Ah! But her heart was of stone, she could not thrive

.

A story of betrayal, sorrow, and love

It was what made us whole for each disfigured

To each of their own, the darkness came from above

Images dancing of our hands together, walls lingered

.

Golden hair, purple eyes, mango residue

A gentle smile, soft-touch, there were only a few

Warm lighting, cozy was her sensation, innocent like a barn owl

Writing about her I wonder who was she under her cowl

.

Running through the park, memories rewritten, like a dandelion shawl

Giggling and looking at each other, oh! did we fall.

.

She might be gone, fixed was she, for I was broken once more

By my dishonesty, I don’t understand why she has to go

Young was her spirit, or so spoke her lore

Everything seems clear, blinded by the snow

.

It was as if yesterday she was my guardian

Couldn’t see for she was my grim reaper

Shredded once again, I started to wonder

.

Who was she when I first met her, I heard the accordion

Who were are we really?

Categories
life people personal Poem Self story Thoughts Uncategorised World

A LETTER TO ALL WRITERS

by:Anjali

To all writers,

.

I am an archaic judge of your poetry 

balancing thy heart in the depths of my envy

Not envious of the talent you possess

I am a walking reincarnation of the papers you tore. 

.

I am often enraged at your passing gimmicks. 

The blatant disrespect remotely surprises me too, 

You carve your fervent poetry in my deep roots,

and with one syllable mistake, throw me in the rubble. 

.

But it is not just my voice calling out to you. 

It is our voices as we are littered all around you. 

The trash can at the other end of the room sighs too,

You could’ve given us a respectful burial, at the very least.

.

The words you write aren’t always yours

Inebriation is your only friend to get through. 

You weep when you string a few incoherent words,

then throw away the sheet tinted with your stained sorrow. 

.

I am not calling you out as you would think, 

I am merely calling you an emotional wreck. 

I might seem a little bitter now; In my defense, 

there wasn’t enough sugar in my coffee, to begin with 

.

But let me wrap up my note as soon as possible. 

I find it improbable that you’d acknowledge me anyways. 

I know that I am just a mere draft,

But could you please not throw me in the damn rubble? 

.

From, 

That sheet you crumbled and threw away

Categories
change COVID-19 Efforts growing up Lessons life personal Poem Self society story Thoughts World

PRACTICAL OR BRAVE?

by:Rithika

Dear readers, it should be noted that I’m no philosopher and am just gathering some thoughts. But, if this helps you make some decisions, be sure to let me know. Because that would mean that I’m good at writing and it’s something very critical for me to know.

So, diving right in.

I’m having to choose between an inner voice and a safe choice because unfortunately, they’re not the same thing for me. If I’m being practical, then I’d have to do an MBA and take a job. Does that not make me happy?

Of course, it does. To be honest, having a stable career is what I want. But then, will I stay happy doing this?, knowing that there’s a writer inside who deserved a chance but quit because I was too scared? It brings me back to my question. Am I allowed to flirt with two different choices? There was a time when I reached a solution. Life felt happy. Everything felt right inside. Until I realized it wasn’t. I was just sufficing myself. That’s when I knew it was legit toxic. But it finally felt so good to arrive at an answer. ‘If you truly love something, let it go if you have to’ seemed to have truly sunk in at that moment.

Getting a normal job would make my family very incredibly happy. I know that.

And I would’ve stuck with that decision if it weren’t for the lockdown. Oh yeah, the lockdown was a really good time for me to explore what writing meant to me. I wrote a few poems. Then thought they deserved a bigger platform than my Harry Potter themed-notebook. I gathered all the courage I had and created an Instagram page for my poetry and then miraculously enough, a few of my poems got published in an actual book. That frankly boosted my confidence. I started writing a novel too, but then I’m yet to complete it. All these things have confused me more. Because writing or literature according to a majority of the society, isn’t mainstream and if you don’t do something mainstream, you’re tagged as incapable for some reason I’ve never understood properly. I then wrote this one specific poem:

Should I go against?

Or bend to their bait?

Is their wish my command?

Even when all I get is reprimand?

Am I free enough to take charge?

Or to let my inner self barge?

What’s holding me hostage?

Will I ever be able to rip off that one bandage?

I want to get out of the trap,

But what if it’s the actual map?

Also then, will the ghosts leave?

I can’t even tell if it’s just a pet peeve,

I live with my fears,

Can’t even get rid in those tears,

Maybe it’s high time,

Should I end this in the prime?

Honestly, this poem made me look at things clearly, and then, I dropped the bomb on my family saying that I’d been thinking of doing a Masters in Literature. Ironically, I can never explain the happiness I derived from their reaction in words. They were okay with the idea of my future where I would be a writer. That lifted a huge weight off my chest. That made me think why I was still scared to take the step of ditching a software job and take the risk of ending up as some non-famous writer. It was because my heart didn’t accept the idea of me leading a mundane life and also, this feeling called regret was something I’d never want to feel. If I was never courageous enough to give my talent a chance; I would regret and beat myself up over it every day later.

 Here’s to hoping that I keep writing!