#repost @soumyasinghchauhan (@get_repost) ・・・ It’s okay, Take a moment, You can take your time, bid adieu, Say your long goodbyes, It’s time to let the sun set on your glory days, It’s time to stop searching for your own significance in someone else’s present, Let the self of the past be replaced, As you continue to gravitate toward a dimming light, And count your memories in the scattering hues, Of reds, pinks, yellows, Flooding with light a final time, The hallways of towering temples of education, Staircases of the lighthouse of friendships, Till it’s darkened in the shadows of journals and stacks of pictures which will be visited a few times in the times ahead. It’s okay, Take a moment, You can take your time, breathe seconds, Into the sun rising in someone else’s sight, Who will build their foundation on the same ground you did, Mistaking it for the whole manor; There is so much more building to do. There will be more days, More glorious, The sun will be there tomorrow; But for now, Take your time, You were not what you did, You will not be what you do, Reminisce in the shadows of the rising moon, On your glory days. Then bid it a solemn adieu. . . — Soumya Singh Chauhan — April 11th, 2019 — Glory. . . —————— On growing up and letting go. . —————— . Written by @soumyasinghchauhan Thanks for this beautiful piece. #napowrimo#nationalpoetrymonth#nationalpoetrywritingmonth#signedsoumya #quote#poem#follow#share#endless#love#pread#like#go#insta#blog#blogger#vlog#youtube#infulencer#written#by#soumyasinghchauhan @imsandeepgarg
The two times we met, I still remember the touch of your voice, it didn't sound anything like violin , it felt like the sound of home! My anxiety fell in love with me, we found a park bench that perfectly fit us, it's never a conversation, she talks, I listen. Every time we meet, she comes with a heavy heart and without consent she pours it all over. She doesn't touch me, but I crumble and twist yet she never let's me cry She tells me she is to attached to the weight to allow me to let it go. We sit for hours, and I know she's never leaving But the two times we met, I remember the smell of curiousity around us So when I say I found my home in you I mean she did too I mean she doesn't scare me anymore I mean I don't need her consent to cry And I mean I can let her stay when you are around cause, I found my home in you. -Medha Sreeya . Artwork by: @giuliajrosa
Hi creative and beautiful friends! I definitely disappeared after #nationalpoetrymonth. No real reason except that maybe there was no goal to complete anymore? But I miss challenging myself to write. Please comment below if you know of tags or accounts that regularly provide prompts! ⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️⬇️ I seem to do better with structure! . . . . #poetryofig#poetsofinstagram#writersofinstagram#womenwriters#poetryprompts
Love takes its chances with me not the other way around They say dreams are from the devil you were mine an unfulfilled tarted heartbreaking one Say my name Say my name it tastes like an undeserving victory in your mouth When God threw leftover love in my hands oh darling it was you it was you And It dawned upon me it was over that one summer afternoon when Elvis Presley played in my living room and I no longer danced with your ghost in my head And you run run into the arms of a 100 cities to escape my name Run run into the arms of 100 bodies to fill the voids screeching my name Run run only for it to end with you running into me holding frozen memories in your shivering hands, Dead love stories are Standstill breathing graves Don’t dig Don’t kiss There was an unsettling hope in them that burnt lives Passion is a match stick against a forest fire What lights it burns out quicker than the chaos it caused- us the ashes, Oh the tragedy in the way we looked at each other like two worlds standing at the edge of an apocalypse Smiling at the brink of an explosion What occupies your mind is the yellow of our happiness served in melancholy not the red that comes after we explode Lets fool our brains into gulping the yellows when all it spits is red Does that count as happiness? Hold my hand through the war land flooded in a blanket of shredded bodies One chocked on the pipe dream of “us” The other who bled out of passion One swallowed magic and said “this is too good to be real” The other dried down to bones named itself “hope” The most tragic wars are the ones where you lose without fighting The war land is flooded In a war of two Only one was shredded I held you with one hand The other wrote this poem Begging me to see I was holding a carcass.-TAHA FATIMA . . . . . . . . . . ————————————————— #ttt#poetry#globalpoetcult#poetryporn#poemsindia#poetrycommunity#poetsofinstagram#heartofpoets
A list of ways to read a poem : 1. First, take the poem's hand and ask her to walk away from the paper. It won't be easy. But do it anyway. 2. If she cries, wipe her tears and kiss her forehead. Tell her it's okay. Everybody leaves. We promise to stay , but all in love are liars. 3. Tell her you love her. 4. Hold her face in your hand. Run your palm over her line breaks. Let your breath touch all the places where sentences end. How do you feel now? Did your heart dip like a semicolon? 5. Read the poem to your mirror. Hold every word on the tip of your tongue. Write down if it feels like the sky or the ocean. Sunshine mixed with a little salt. 6. Shake the poem to see if it rattles. She is the best place to hide memories for a rainy day. 7. Keep the poem under your pillow and sleep on it. See how many tears she can hold in her palms. 8. When you're done being the rain, take out the poem and hold it close to where it hurts the most. 9. Read the poem on the days you are lost. Let her have your arm. She will keep you safe. She'll guide you home. 10. Keep it with you on the dining table. Eat grief by the spoonful right in front of her. Offer her whatever is left on your plate. 11. Read the poem in the oldest cemetery of your city, where your best friend is buried. See if she recognizes the grave / read it when it's raining/ recite it to your mother, see if she still recognizes you. 12. Push the poem into a river. If she swims away, then she's yours.