I live the way my heart suggests me ♡
If rose could write
It’d say…
“I symbolise your love
In my lovely way.”
If lavender could write
It’d say…
“I symbolise devotion serenity,
And your hearty grace.”
If peony could write
It’d say…
“I symbolise happy life
Starting from your wedding day.”
If gardenia could write
It’d say…
“Shh…keep it secret
I’m your love bae!”
Social media being a vast platform to show up your talent do have some flaws too. If it’s supportive…it’s addictive too.
Still it’s the best opportunity to uncover your hidden talents and make the world aware of metaphors that make your life poetry beautiful.
For me, my metaphor is poetry itself… I can’t remember my any time in a day which I didn’t use to write something or think about any topic or moment which I can pen down!
For my worthless poetries…I made a YouTube channel too.
I think social media is the best way to attach to people around us all over the world.
Whether you’re an Indian or an American or belong to any other country…you can openly share your views, your acts, your things that make you smile and can also be a reason for others to smile!
https://youtube.com/channel/UCu586RUDTLJT1xldPBLNqYw
The link here will take you to my poetry page…I hope you’ll be entertained by my worthy poetries!
Do have a view to these…and if you’re not interested it’s okay to ignore ✌
//It hurts when they call you slave
How can you call another same?//
Around the globe
In a county like yours
There is a trend of sale
Of slaves by norms
To keep you happy
By hook or by crook
You bargain for prices
For their every look
You make them lick
Your foot left prints
You master them as
They’re pets you need ~
There’s another world
Where humans protest
For their rights
And respect
A world where
You get your needs
Live your life
The way you weed ~
There’s another poll
Where world is small
With every heart
Bleeding sorrows.
Dear poetries,
You share my every weakening part or every deepening strength.
You know my past and present.
Thank you for sharing with me; my crying nights and bleeding days.
Thank you for being a part of some of my weeping birthdays.
To be my fragment
I thank you
To be my friend
I thank you
To keep my secrets safe
I thank you
To keep my bones sacred
I thank you
To be my hunk of fervour
I thank you
To be my superior server
I thank you
To feed my famished heart
I thank you
To pioneer my hidden spark
I thank you
To be my never seen cry
I thank you
To be my milkshake, fry
I thank you
To heal my every pain
I thank you
To steal my nighty drain
I thank you
To be a part of me
I thank you
O, my poetries
I thank you.
Those pillars of yours
Stand uprooted silt
O, Mr House
You’re the home for mist.
Your walls blundered
You’re abandoned
O, Mr House
You’re freaking sick.
Your doors screaming
As we pass you three
O, Mr House
Woods are slicy thick.
Fans with lengthy rods
Retrieving your arrival
O, Mr House
You’re old and rival.
Your property’s cost
Least my memories within
O, Mr House
You’re my family’s heart in.
From the fair of hearts
I farely dwelled ma needs
I bought some refrains
And some artistic weeds.
I gathered some courage
In rupee they their sell
I purchase some guts
To credit my wand spell.
I lofted for some muse
For my metaphoric verse
I purchase some tools
With serene rhyme curse.
From the fair of poetries
I listed my poetic device
I dwelled on ma needs tho
To pledge my worship slice.
1 and 2 and 3 awaits, stand in heat for turns wait. System too cracked//bones are hacked;no one briefly describes the pain.
Day before yesterday; I went to the hospital to take my first vaccine dose. Rooms I saw were mainly empty at that time. A huge crowd of people were standing in the hall under tree shades. Some even didn’t wore masks. There was no rule of social distancing seen either.
When my turn came; I saw two ladies sitting and placing names on chits of the people who were registered for doses. They were too not playing their roles seriously and chit-chating together when a lady came to ask them send more people to be vaccinated as the doctors didn’t get any.
I too heard one of the two ladies saying another of the mistake of sending a 45+ aged man to the room where people from 18 to 45 were vaccinated.
I don’t know what is happening today.
Daily in the news channels there is one common news of black marketing of vaccines or oxygen cylinders. The time when a human need support of other human and people have a great advantage to do deeds; some people are misusing their merits and playing with lives.
“His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles; his love sincere, his thoughts immaculate; his tears pure messengers sent from his heart; his heart as far from fraud, as heaven from earth” – William Shakespeare
I’m a mere heart-warming poetry
Enhancing thy scars as a beauty garland;
An abstract of pious heart sheen
Yielding every touch of thy healthy emotions.
I’m a ship submerged in the sea of intensities;
A saint in the church of love
Worshiping every shade of thy worthy beauties.
I’m a keen writer; selfless or adept
Wording metaphors of life in poetry’s every breath.
A poetry my soul makes
Contains my secrets of deep sorrows
The rhythm it sanctions
Bless my words with secrets too narrow
A letter bottled up
Thrown near the shore of heart
Contains all my secrets
Of you and our love being hard
A mug of water pulled
In the sea of my lost spring’s secrets
Another metaphor added
To sorrows or griefs or love or hatreds
// His stomach is not habitual of bearing
So much food he got in a day. //
That morning when I woke up for jog, the smashing noise of rain were coming from my window.
I went outside to feel the pleasure it brings with every drop while in the mean time a boy around 6 paved a way inside my house through garden walls.
For time being when my stomach growled, the season wanted some pakoda with milky tea.
My eyes astound witnessing the wholly disturbed kitchen with distinctive marks of small feet.
I searched for the beggar all my house to scold him for his un-endurable extreme thing.
When I saw a cold boy hiding under my slap eating my only burger so
pleasure-ly.
The dirt on his face and cloths and hands was like he’d not washed himself for years.
Eyes shining too bright, with torn-out clothes in cold weather, eating burger with small tears.
I held his hand in mine when he crawled on my knees begging for the meal.
I showed him some more to see his eyes turning bright in outer lightning.
And I heard the replicating growl of starving stomach all throughout the hilarious day.
And happiness became my pleasure meal with pakoda and tea on that day.
Poetry Pot