#spilled in poetry

[maihonhassan]

Sometimes, you just can't hold it inside:

"Aaj sadmay balaa ke thay, warna dil ki adat nahin ke aaah kare."

- Arslan Abbas

[psychastria]

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

[uaravsh]

"Poetry doesn't have to rhyme, it just has to touch someone where your hands couldn't."

- Rudy Akbarian (@uaravsh )

[coffeexxcigarettes]

Ame damnee

-

Being born an angel

With wings that shimmer;

Choiceless.

You will be good,

They will cheer for you.

I took fire to my innocence,

Stood before them with scars

And rage.

"Too loud." They'd fuss,

"Opinionated. Bossy. Bitch."

My body would tremble with the reminder

Of what I was born to be.

Beautiful and quiet.

You came along, and I spoke evenly.

Directly.

And stars filled your eyes,

You reached for me with hunger.

"An angel?!" You cooed,

"You're so brave!"

But what about my wings and beauty?

What about the light?

You cheered for me in the darkness,

Without the promise of my blessing,

Awed by the conviction

I was cast out of Heaven for.

Brave.

I'd never heard that before.

The glow I was born with,

Seemed to crack within me.

Twisting and branching into something new.

We laughed together,

And though I was told they'd cheer for me-

I cheered for you.

I cheered for you.

x

[thesongoffadingaway]

For my next birthday I wish to become numb. Numb enough to put at rest the burning fire inside me.

[poemsandpots]

TRIGGER WARNING: self harm. Please do not click read more if you are triggered by it.

Brush Strokes M.K

[prettymeaninglessnonsense]

The greatest novelists were artless people

Words being wheat and them the reaper

Igniting them on fire to suffice their infamous inner desire

Finding meaning in nonsense only causes me to tire

The great novelists were limitless people

Says the reciter, claiming the words to go much deeper

Scowling after being called out

For probing says can't help that he is a dreamer

The great novelists weaved forlorn tapestries

Like Arachne, they got cursed

To live a small pitiful life losing their own sanity, catastrophically

The great novelists were powerful soldiers

Searing your heart apart with their unsheathed swords

Words they wrote, cut throats

The great novelists were sad people

The fantasies they used metaphorically

Writing about themselves in deep imagery

And if the protagonist unalived themselves

You know what would happen to them

The greatest novelists were cursed people

Who could see every perspective that met the human eyes

Nothing to be left in disguise

They wrote about what made them merry

And what caused their sad demise

A piece of literature isn't always about what the writer writes, but what the reader understands. This poem is about a person who doesn't think much about writers except that they are talentless lost souls finally finding his tunes in a novel. Finally understanding the writer.

This is a transition poem, a person transitioning his views upon literature. It also tells us how if you dive deep into a topic then only you would be able to unfold it otherwise you would just think ill of the folk who do.

[bymarahh]

Hope

[asherlaewood]

I win wherever I go...

[maihonhassan]

How hopeless a poet was when he wrote this line:

"Tum se bohat kuch kehna hai magar, kabhi tum nahi milte kabhi alfaaz nahi milte."

[psychastria]

Vincent Van Gogh

[journalsofanaesthete]

From journal of 8 March, 2024

This little life of yours is your very own canvas. And everything you do in life is your art. The way you make your coffee, the way you dress, the way you smile, the way you speak, the way you pray, the way you love. Thoughts you get when you look at the sky, poems you write, stories that you are to tell, pictures you click, from embracing the gentle breeze to listening the whispers of raindrops it's all unique in itself. No one does it like you. And art is supposed to differ. So, you can't compare your canvas with someone else's canvas wondering why their art is different from yours and if yours is as pretty as theirs or not.

[tansdiary]

the moon's with me the moon bid me a goodbye she hid behind the clouds she’s telling me to sleep— to not wait for her to not miss her because wherever i go she’ll be with me forever i must bid her a goodbye i must hide in my sheets i must sleep now— until tomorrow until i see her again because wherever i am she’ll be with me forever

[coffeexxcigarettes]

Quiet

-

But the emptiness,

It seeps into my bones.

To trust

And be bitten,

Hungrily.

Almost as if waiting

For the opportunity.

My eyes are heavy now.

My chest,

Even heavier.

I'll learn to seal these lips,

Even if it kills me.

Empty bones

And all.

x

[claire-de-lune-poetry]

To be or to not-

The day old question of a turning century

"Do we consume the poetry, or does the poetry consume us?"

I suppose in my theroy

If you are more of a reader, you consume it

Gluttonous to the detriment of our curiosity

If you are a writer though..

It consumes you.

Swallows every aspect of your passions

Lusting for the very burn your soul waters for

Desire wouldn't be a big enough plate

You'd eat the table just to be descriptive

Just to put eyes, minds, feelings, exactly where we were

Writing, producing, directing your very own image

To bring the Frankenstein of creativity to life

How much power black and white symbols become

Words don't hurt for those who have never enjoyed poetry

It's impossible to feel nothing and write

Even nothing is felt across blank pages

Even silence screams an echo dogs can hear

So to let it burn or be burned

I guess would be the cost of our desires

And you know what they say

Everything comes at a price

Are you willing to pay without paper fallacy

Illusions of monetary value while you waste time

All for the question at hand

To not be a consequence of something so sublime

12/09/23

[simplylvndr]

be so rooted in yourself that no one's absence or presence can disturb your peace.