pebblesfrommoon

[pebblesfrommoon]

Ink of my pen ain't what it used to be,

Painter never died; rather vibrant hues,

Souls in my paper are abused through me,

Night sky's my comrade, because blue blew me.

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

We exist for art, ours is a poetic existence. Artists and poets bleed through every ink, intense resistance against taking our own lives. Such pain and insecurities will take away a common man, but we have a purpose – to prosper the art and imagination. Artists live for the sake of keeping the art alive.

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

I love the idea, but what if that idea lives as a true embodiment? I love flowers, but to be gifted by someone is pure as an innocent soul. Selenophilia is an idea, but imagine finding the moon in someone's eyes. Immortality was an idea, until I wrote poems about her. Moon is an idea, she is my moon, I was her Sun, but someone else was her world.

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

My Moon went behind these clouds and she's not mine anymore, but there was a writer's ecstasy I'm yearning for, I'm everything now my young me fears, but a poet again as the rain from these clouds joins my tears.

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

Let the nature take you away, but my Penguin, not the angels, not even the mighty gods can take you away from my heart. The Painter and The Poet shall live for eternity. And like another Edgar Allen Poe, instead of sea shore, on these same grass lands, where you and I paint and wrote about each other, under the same moonlight; here I am. And it's beautiful, now that I look at you from Earth and you at me from the Moon. You've never been this beautiful my beloved. And I'm not alone, I don't sleep. Our memories tells me the stories of the past every night. And I spend every night listening to them. No painter have ever painted me this beautiful and no one ever will or ever can. My love — wait for me, time will take me to you. We will build a new castle out of Pebbles From Moon.

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

And alone on this castle of moon pebbles; here I am. My Penguin, the ghosts of our memories accompanies me through these hallways, in every room, in the kitchen, even in closets. The echoes of my agony disturbs the Moon; her tears falls on the sea; anguished tides. Every wall holds close your paintings. Who will tell these painting brushes that you're no longer here to hold them. My Love. My Moon. My Penguin.

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

She'll wait for me, at the Moon, painting. She'd paint me, she'd paint us, she'd paint her. And waits for me to complete it, she'll wait for my poetry. The Moon will cry for me, but smile for that the greatest selenophile Painter is now with her and that she waits for me.

– Her Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

I was a lonely star, about to explode. And moments before, she came — "I can't stop you from death," she told me, "you never deserved to live a lonely life. But I won't let you die alone." "But it's not your time yet... " I said. "I know." she replied...

– Her Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

My Penguin, at times even the Sun is envious of you for how much light you can bring upon my eyes with your presence.

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

How ironic is it my Moon, everytime a profound piece of poetry I come at sight, or the one that I write — like a beautiful rain about to calm my heart you cloud my mind. Yet at times, your presence dusks my words.

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

Rare are those monarchs with artistic souls. But not the artists with a soul of monarchy. Them do not burden with crowns of gold, neither inferior the commoners. We do not build the castle, but world first, then castle. There She and I; Queen and King. No commoners, but only us and us.

– Her Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

Could we just remain two lost souls forever? Gazing at the Moon and Stars forever?

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

What is love but dreaming of traveling across the vast cosmos together when we are gone and returning to our home on the Moon after exhaustion, and do it all over again.

– Your Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

Hopeless Romanticism – heart searching for warmth in cold. Anti-poetics gave her blankets, fools took it away when she needed it the most. Colder and colder her heart grew. "Stone-cold" they called her heart, and it really was. But I couldn't, 'cause a snow woman wouldn't exist without someone building one. To God I'm grateful; 'fore she turned ice, with a blanket I warmed her, but I grew cold. From the other end, with the same blanket she covered me; we shared. "You too will take this blanket away?" She asked. "Never" I promised.

– Her Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

There was a journey I was too afraid to take. Waves were the pain to my psyche. However, for sailing I set. Stars brightened my path, Moon was my companion, clouds — unironic shelters. I had a destination, but the end? That wasn't. An endless destination. Faced the waves, faced the spears of Helios. Then I reached a lonely island. There I saw a lonely beautiful woman. She was scared, and scarred. I went upto her, "My soul arms no pain as weapon." I assured. And as she started to gain calmness, we talked. Together we sat on that lonely island. "To no home I'm belonging, you see. Many a sailors I see, none gave me home but hope. Now hopeless is all I can be." She told me in pain. "'Cause when there's sun home's a tree, but hope's always incomplete." I said. I saw hope blissing her eyes again, but this time I buried the incompleteness. I gave her a key; a key to my home, a key to our home. To never let go of that key she took an oath that night. Then together we set sail, leading us wherever the stars might.

And even to this night, that oath she never gave in vain. Now, even as her head lies on my chest, to her hand the key still stays.

– Her Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

It is absolutely beautiful to patiently wait together for the Moon to show up rather than showing up when the Moon comes out.

– Her Penguin

[pebblesfrommoon]

On a beautiful night where the Moon and all the stars gazed at us from above, shining; we were lying on the grass, she placed her gentle palms on my cheeks, locked her eyes on mine with our faces so close, she declared this:

"Oh you silly poets, what have you done? Intellectual descendants of Shelly and Keats, how have you lured the homeless hearts of these Romantics with the beauty of your words? How can you paint the words of hope in poetry and intoxicate us Romantics into a Hopeless one? When you know how it will kill us, when these anti-poetics will use us with their meaningless consonants disguised as poetic syllables. How can you?! How can we know where the syllables exist? Your alluring words smell of blood from the bleeding broken hearts that you promised a romantic paradise to. I'm only a one among the thousands. What about the rest? Where will they find their poet? You've given them the cards of words with which they've build their house. And whenever it felt like a home it was nothing but a wind that came to shatter them. And they would pick it up to build it again only to be shattered by another wind. Oh you silly poets, what have you done?"