What love is-

What love is-

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They say,
This- is what love is,
But you wouldn’t know now,
Would you?… referring to me,
A rendition, much like,
The sensational rhymes
Of a love poem,
Pours out of them.

I listen,
I have to-
An emotion which seems to be
An equivalent, to the way
I gaze at a cup of
Steaming black coffee,
Enchanted by the
Swirls of its steam;
Anticipation,
of that first sip.

An emotion which almost,
Feels like the yearning
With which I wrap myself
Around my one gifted duvet,
A visit,
Whose end I dread.

An emotion akin to
The warmth which embraces me
Each moment I happen,
Upon the words of my lord.
Pleasant to the ears,
Soothing to the soul.

An emotion which almost,
Almost feels like the cause,
Of my heart to bit a little faster,
At the sight of my study table;
Always another book to read.
How I hate them.
Oh, how I love them.

But they say-
I do not know what love is.
Maybe, I don’t.

The beautiful picture above Is courtesy of Pinterest.

O- October lessons

O- October lessons

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Don’t take my silence,
As my innocence,
Or the naivety of a girl.
For the girl in me,
Had died long before,
Your ring ever touched my hand.

Don’t take my silence,
As a proof you’ve won,
For your barks more than your bite;
And I’ve fought more battles,
Than you’ll ever see,
And emerged each time a victor.

Don’t take my silence,
as anything but,
A remembrance of mama’s word,
One October morning,
bless her soul, she said-
never stoop down to a fool’s worth.

the above image is courtesy of Beautiful petals.com

C- Colour me earth

C- Colour me earth

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You-
With the red hair and
Pale skin,
Eyes reflecting the cerulean
Sea;
You-
With the brown hue,
And hornets of untangleable
Four C,
Eyes- the colour of the bees’
Produce.

Yes, you-
With darkest of skin,
And you-
With the lightest of hair,
Do not,
let the world convince you,

That you’re-
less genetically blessed.

For blue- is the earth,
And green is the earth,
And black and brown,
Are from the earth;
And all of it-
We know is blessed.
By the one, in whose hands
My soul lies.

Today’s poem Is inspired by a Post I read by Nayana Nair. This is a scheduled post, I’m sorry I won’t be able to reply your comments, I’m currently on a travel. Take care, and happy reading. 

Rejection-

Rejection-

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He told you, that verses were old school,
All the modern poets dwelt in lines;
So you bundled up all of your pages,
Dumping them in the dark of your house;
Only one- two lines just, he requested,
No one’s got time to go through a page,
And the heart that you poured into writing,
Crashed to nothing, within a sec.

You tried, didn’t you, to conform,
But the words wouldn’t make sense in two;
After efforts and hours and struggling,
You decided it wasn’t for you;
So you bundled up, all that you’d written,
Modern poetry was not worth the pain;
With his words echoing in the background,
You set fire and watched through the flames.

Who’s to say that you can’t be a poet,
Just because you refuse to conform,
To a particular style of writing,
While beauty resides in every form.
Seasons fade from autumn to winter,
But the truth of the fact still remains,
Some would prefer the winter in autumn,
Some would choose the other way;
Write two lines if you wish or long pages,
Write because- you have something to say.

Her Evolution-

Her Evolution-

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I wasn’t always like this you know, she remarked softly, as if speaking to No one in particular.
I used to be fun, at least that’s what I’ve been told. I used to have friends, I even used to make jokes, laughable ones too.

It was great to be the joker and the life of the crowd and I reckon, I enjoyed the attraction and the favours it brought along. But eventually, I began to wonder if there was more to life than “that kind” of fun …

I wondered if I could be more. I wanted to be more.
More than just another pretty face, another name who gets passed around by with a laugh, another came and gone, another soul in a world filled with a billion of us. I wanted to be More…

It began with writing down all the things I thought I could do, the person I thought I could be, and- I never dropped the pen afterwards.

They say I have changed and I have lost who I used to be.
But in fact, I have evolved, I have found who I am supposed to be.

The successful ones-

The successful ones-

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Would I- be amongst those,
Whose fingers would speak,
Of the goodness erupting,
From their finger tips;

On the day when the mountains,
All become flattened,
When man stands- sole,
And account for his deed.

Would I- be amongst, the few
Chosen ones, whose faces
Aglow, from the
Worship of their Lord.

At the first string of light,
They defeat the alarm,
And the grounds would bear witness,
They glorified their Lord.

Would I be amongst those,
The shaded ones,
Who bore with fortitude,
The trials of this world.

For indeed, on that day,
They’re the successful ones.
Those who walked the earth as strangers,
Knowing IT, they will become.

Transformation-

Transformation-

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You are allowed to break down and unburden;
Weep from the depth of your soul,
when you hit rock bottom.
You- are allowed to fall apart.
Even rocks dissolve,
under extreme duress.
You are a human,
Intricately put together,
Cell by cell,
To absorb and reflect,
To feel and depict,
Ranges of emotions.

Your breaking is your transformation.
So grieve, weep, fall, break.
Take a good look
At the scattered pieces;
Watch the unwanted,
Flutter away,
And pick yourself up,
Glue it all back together,
And watch your transformation begin.

Writers Quote: Hope

Writers Quote: Hope

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When I saw this week’s theme, “Hope“, I knew I had to write on one of my favorite poems, “Hope is a thing with feathers-” by the late Emily Dickinson. Here’s the full poem below,

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to share an Emily Dickinson poem. Many a times, I see and read stories and poems bordering on the statement, all I’m left with is hope. I think, what we sometimes forget is- hope is all we need.

This thing we refer to as “just hope” is what keeps us going every single day. It is the light at the end of a tunnel which enables us to wake up every morning, believing the coming day is going to be better than the previous one. It is the motivation and zeal which gives us the strength to put a smile on our faces after a tear filled night. This little thing, hope, is in fact what separates us from falling in to the abyss of despair, which is a tough well to climb out of.

Hope is not just a word, it is the fading voice in our head reminding us amidst the storms, we’ve got this, the sun will rise at dawn and everything will be alright again.
Hope is much more than a four letter word, it is the thing with feathers which helps us to fly despite the tumultuous wind dragging us down; it is that bridge which help us to trudge out of our miseries one baby step at a time.

Hope is the greatest gift we could ask for because without it, there would be little meaning to life knowing each day is a disaster waiting to strike. Hope truly is a thing with feathers, which gives us the wings to fly.

This post is in response to Writers Quote Wednesday Writing Challenge, hosted by Silver Threading and RonovanWrites

Flash Fiction: Survived

Flash Fiction: Survived

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Sleep was supposed to be an escape for the soul, but not for Anita. Not after March 25th, the night she found herself victim to an eccentric looking man with green eyes who although immune to emotions, was a master of facade; a man who’d cut short the lives of seven innocent girls before her… She should have been number eight.

Anita had tried everything, therapy, meditation, you name it but still, each time she shut her eyes, the memories come gushing in blurry flashbacks with only one clear cut frame amidst the chaos- A red chandelier. Shutting her eyes, took her back to that moment, when she’d stare at the chandelier, the only thing with color in her hunter’s den, trying to gate the pain and fear off.

But she’d survived then and would survive facing him in court the next day, with or without sleep on her side. She was ready.


Word count: 160. The above story is in response to a Flash Fiction For Aspiring Writers photo prompt challenge hosted by priceless Joy. Thank you @TJ Paris for this week’s picture. 

On being lonely-

On being lonely-

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And she said, I’m going to be lonely,
There’s no one that can handle my tides;
She was echoing the words of her family,
Who’d imprinted in her- she’s too wild.

She had silenced the sound of her laughter,
And glided with- the sway of her hips;
She smiled without showing her fine teeth,
And chewed with her lips tightly sealed.

She dressed with the label- appealing,
For the family approved of it;
And it was only under the night’s Blanket,
She found the glimmer to be real.

Who’s to say that you’re going to be Lonely,
When your fate has been crafted and sealed;
It’s been written by the best of writers
And he’s designed you to be unique.

The above image is courtesy of Chakra centre.org