spurtsofdarkness

India

He/him
B99 fanboy
Slytherin
Poet (?)
est. June 2020
14
Also, I’m on prose: spurtsofdark

Message from Writer

Plaudite, amici, comedia finita est.

avatar: portrait of dr. edward anthony spitzka by thomas eakins. his last work and rather incomplete. however, beauty is seldom complete.

Published Work

reaper

lie down/ in empty caskets/
get draped/ in a white cloth/
or let vultures/ feed on you/
pluck off parts/ of your flesh/
or get burnt to ashes/
it doesn't matter/
he'll come for you/
the reaper/


he feeds/ on souls/
innocent souls/
wipes bloodstains/
with white undergarments/
he's draped under/ black cloaks/
hooded monstrosity/
with death/ by his side/

what's it like meeting him?

darkness/ swallows you whole/
your mind's on fire/
acts of arson/
you committed/
he did/
you hear/
babies screaming/
in/ their cradles/
women/ crying in horror/
men/ in disgust/
maggots/ in their eye sockets/
their eyeballs/ popping out/
like table tennis balls/
leeches/ sucking the crimson/
out of their/ very souls/

his body/
saturated tones of red/
yet the blood's/ flushed away/
a skeletal frame/
his bony hands/
yet so full/

he etches sins/ on pieces of parchment/
for you to read/
for you to taste/
and drink them/
like spoons of melancholy/

shoot me in the...

wilt thou remember me, hamlet?

will you remember me, Hamlet?

your delicate fingers/
wandering about places/
where they shouldn't/
moving up my pale legs/
up to my stout thighs/
as i swat them away/
never meeting the teacher's eye/
you looking into my soul/ sinfully/
when she looks at the blackboard/
your voice/ music to my ears/
against the screeching of chalks/
sitting opposite to each other/
on wooden desks/ as star-crossed lovers/ brought together/
by fate/ or not, who cares/
you drawing/ oddly shaped hearts/
with blue ink/ on my fragile wrists/
my hands/
running through your bristly hair/
distractedly/ as you cry over/
your dead father/
i console you/
my clothes/ drenched in tears/
climbing atop the willow/ serene skies/
looking over us/ enviously/
moss-covered branches/ held apart/
by leaves/ agonizing for just a touch/
just a kiss/
returning home/ as night falls/
sitting under/ magnificent purple skies/
and cotton candy clouds/ talking about nothing/
using your shabby jacket/
as a makeshift pillow/
your hazel eyes/ brighter...

India and the colour saffron (tw- allegations, accusations, mentions of communalism, political)

It all started in 1985. India hasn't been the same since.

The BJP or the Bhartiya Janta Party is currently the ruling party of India. It's a right-wight, Hindu extremist party (Yes, I said it. Report me. See if I care) which was formed in 1980, as a sub-group of another 'nationalist' organization called the RSS. The RSS, too, is allegedly an extremist organization, but they won't accept it. Nor will the BJP. But wait, I'll give you some pretty good reasons as to why you should, at least, accept it. I will be first talking about the BJP, and then about its honorable members, including our very lovable Prime Minister, Mr. Narendra Modi. So, back to 1986, when one of the most complicated court cases India had ever seen, was taking place. The infamous Shah Bano case. The case was between Shah Bano and her husband, who had refused to pay her the alimony after divorcing her. She filed...

cleopatra


cleopatra/
the alphabets roll off/ the top of my tongue/
and wander off/ to the heavens/
cleopatra/

royal floors rumble beneath us/
glorious skies creak above/
and here we are/
lying on blue satin sheets/ spread on imperial beds/
your hands in mine/
my heart in yours/
just me/ and you/
cleopatra/

a waft of egyptian perfumes/
burns our nostrils/
the ones/ sold in tiny glass bottles/
like forbidden dreams/
to be rubbed on translucent wrists/
one drop at a time/

under the high-ceilings/
i undress you/
swiftly/
slowly/
my fingers/ move gently over plastic buttons/
over woolen threads/
chemicals/ rush through my mind/
intoxicate it/
your love/ reaches my mouth/
and melts on my tongue/
in a blaze of glory/
beads of sweat/ trickle down my back/
like the diamonds/ in your ring/
and then/

we lie together/    
on pink sheets of satin/
watercolor gods and goddesses/
watch us sin/ tarnish ourselves/
from their abodes/ in painted canvases/
on the wall opposite/
...

it all fades into darkness [tw: reality check (yes, it deserves a warning)]

at the end of the day,
the sun sets,
hides behind the horizon 
like a coward.
The curtain closes,
the theatre closes down.
darkness takes over
when the play ends.
the bright lights of momentous glory,
momentous happiness,
all fade, into an unsettling atmosphere.
strange faces moving about,
finding their way back to the light,
back to happiness,
just as the curtain closes down.
we can't bear darkness.

relationships end.
friendships end.
Your best friend in second grade?
He bitches about you behind your back.
and you know it,
you just can't give him up.
That girl you thought liked you?
fake.
remember how
you were the most popular kid in school as a child?

when smiles could be bought with a smile,
and friendships with toffees in sparkling wrappers?

remember how your father was your hero,
maybe he still is,
but the things aren't just the same anymore, are they?
you sat on your dad's shoulders
like it was...

adolescent lovers

we'll sit beneath old trees,
when the sun's at the zenith,
beneath grand canopies,
side by side,
and yet so far,
eating stale omelettes out of air-tight lunchboxes,
littering the ground with rusty pieces
of silver foil,
and i'll look at you;
and then maybe,
you'll look at me, too.

we'll play together,
under velvety skies.
our clothes covered in dust.
we'll climb atop mulberry trees,
and pluck them off
with our dirt-filled,
yellow-stained fingernails.
we'll go together to picnics,
gorging on rancid potato chips,
sitting on warm metal benches.
content.

i'll read you bedtime tales,
as your head lies in my lap,
your fingers trace my arms,
curiously.
i'll look at your marble eyes,
trying to find the boyhood
beneath them.
we'll pluck on pretty flowers,
you'll bore me with their names-

'this one's called a sunflower,
look at it, so pretty,
not more than you, though'


and then you'll tie the tender stem
with my uncombed hair,
and...

Letter Writing Competition 2020

dear frida | second draft


Casa Azul (The Blue House),
Mexico City, Mexico

dear Frida,
do you have any idea how cool you were? i'm sorry, that was not what i wanted my opening line to be, but i certainly can't help myself (it may sound a bit informal, but let's face it, you were no less than a hipster yourself, queen).

you were and are an icon, a role model for women all across the world, and i have nothing but admiration for you. no one can stop themselves from admiring you, Frida.

the way you found beauty in pain, the way you brought actual emotions, intangible feelings onto canvases while lying on hospital beds, is incredible, Frida. i'm so glad you attached that easel to your hospital bed to try out painting techniques.
while studying about you, one cannot simply ignore your bittersweet childhood, can they? how you were the victim of an almost fatal motor accident, how you went under...

losing themselves in whiskey glasses

overweight men in
shabby brown clothes
and loose trousers,
under the moonlit skies,
sitting in gleaming cars,
in groups of three,
drinking away their sorrows,
together.
they can't sit alone,
they can't drink alone.
the darkness is too much;
it overpowers them,
regret and guilt
eats them from inside
gnaws at their intestines.
but negative and negative
makes positive.
and so they sit together
on reclined seats of
their cars
with bowls of peanuts on the armrest,
and they drink together
they laugh together.
trying to hide their guilt,
their regret.
hiding themselves
from themselves.

laughing at things
they'll forget tomorrow
with people
they'll never meet again.
they laugh with strangers,
those bastards,
just for a night
of artificial pleasure,
like whores do.
sipping on pale liquids
of bitter happiness,
hard to swallow,
(no thanks, i'll have an ice tea instead)
they drown the night away,
with old songs playing
in the background.
singing along with them,
like the radio's
a...

six horizontal stripes | final draft

six horizontal stripes
signifying infinite capability, infinit
capacity, infinite strength, infinite emotions.

six horizontal stripes
signifying unity, harmony, integrity

six horizontal stripes
that we accept as our own.

the flag is an icon.
i try to explain it.
this is merely a work of imagination.
the truth
is even better.


red    
red depicts love. it depicts power. it depicts passion. it depicts restlessness. red is sweet, like the face of a strawberry, just as summer knocks on your door. but that's not it; red can be aggressive, red can be acrid, like the flaming hot flakes you pour on your pizza. but red is also poetic. red is the field of poppies, blooming in harmony as they welcome spring. red is the last hue of the sky before the day sleeps. red are the shriveled up autumn leaves, that crunch beneath your feet. red is the colour of rubies. red is priceless. red is everlasting. red is irreversible. red is...

et tu, brute?

we/ 
sitting under magnificent roman skies /
golden plates/
with cooked food/
it's been years/ since my famished face/ has had that/
you/ defeated me/
you/ defeated us/
but you/ forgave me/
you/ protected me/
Julius/

a memory rushes past me/
it was/ The Battle of Pharsalus
armies of madmen/
sword-wielding warriors/
horses rushing towards me/
it was all a blur/
and then there he was/
covered in crimson and mud/
our very own leader/
Pompey the Great/
and it was you/ who killed him/
Julius/
and when the sword was at my throat/
waiting to slice it/
it was also you/ who saved me/
Julius/
it was you/ who brought me back/


a god to the people/
an enemy to the senate/
and the father i never had/
you are everything/
oh, Julius/
spectacular dinners/
wealthy food/
rich men/
sitting under high-ceilinged rooms/
golden chandeliers/
beautiful women/
stark white satin suits/
and you brought me here/
you gave it to me/ ...

having lunch at my grandmother's house

we sit down on
dull,
moth eaten sofas,
in the tiny dark room.
the windows are open,
yet, somehow,
the light cannot enter.
the room smells of old clothes
and rancid sandwiches.
bowls of chips are laid upon the coffee table
like bodies in a morgue.
no one dares to touch them
except me.
i place one in my mouth
and immediately have an urge to spit.
the excess of salt dissolves on my tongue
and i shiver.

my abominable cousin walks in
with a steel vessel and some glasses in his hands,
and sets them on the table, smiling at me.
i'm revolted.
the vessel contains lemonade.
the creature i call my brother, tries to pour it in the glass for himself,
and of course,
pours it on himself, instead.
i can't help laughing at the lemonade-drenched monstrosity.
my grandmother then walks in with the main course.
lentil soup-
no wait,
dilute lentil soup,
and chapatis.
the soup is...

god is a toddler

god is a toddler
who likes to draw
with crayons.
he paints the sky
     blue.
and smudges it with white.
he draws an orange blob
and calls it a sun.
he painted forests with green
straight lines
​of plain black called roads.

he painted planets 
and galaxies
and universes
with dots of whites,
on his huge canvas.

emotions
sadness with grey
anger with red
joy with yellow
      usual.

he even made you,
a mixture of colors,
     heterogeneous.
millions of emotions
bubbling inside you,
millions of colors
waiting to lash out,
to shatter
to spill. 

when he gets angry,
he picks up grey
or red
and starts
scribbling.

scribbling.

he scribbles on the canvas.
he scribbles over constellations
over stars
over skies.
he scribbles over you.
his colors
overpower yours.

he's a toddler,
but still a god,
after all .

 

meeting life at the subway at eight in the evening

unpause

pink skies soften around me
and drop down in heaps of cotton candy,
as i step on the platform.
the sun dies
in a slow burn,
as night encapsulates.
stars twinkle overhead
like diamonds,
and i reach
the subway.

the grey train stops
with flashes of light,
and a loud screech;
almost as if
it wants to keep going.
the silver doors slide open
to let out a scream
of people.

men wearing white shirts
and blue blazers,
women with babies in their hands,
rag-pickers, returning back to their homes.
people who have struggled all day
in vain.
people who've fought with their spouses,
people who've fought with themselves.
tired faces,
staunch lips,
with old cigarettes dangling
between the teeth.
yellow fingernails
stained with ash
that keeps crumbling;
keeps falling down,
broke in pieces.

happy people,
talking to their mothers on their phones.
bastards who don't deserve happiness,
smiling like infants.
saints who do.
kids wearing sweat-drenched clothes
and crowns ...

Home



The walls reek 
of old paint, 
tinted decades ago. 
white
and grey.
always white and grey.
gloominess hangs in the air.
Permanently. 
Dust gathers in the corners, 
settles on the bloody carpet. 
consumes it. 
No one bothers to
clean it.
Decayed wooden furniture, 
dead tables and chairs
devoured by termites, 
eaten alive.
Stale water, 
drips from the roof 
onto the wet marble floor. 
Old paintings 
of gods and goddesses, 
of folks and cities
far away
hang on the walls 
by rusty nails,
smelling of nostalgia 
and sadness. 
Hanging
since forever.
Kitchen shelves  
filled with china, 
intricate designs, 
with cracks in the middle.  
Dirty clothes in the cupboard.
No space for new ones.

Shattered hearts 
lie around
like broken vases.
Irreversibly broken.
Put together 
by glue and tape.

People who live here, 
have lived here 
for centuries.  
Family. 
So different from 
each other. 
So, so different. 

Like cut-outs 
from old, musty newspapers, 
glued together 
in a cheap collage. 
Like seven different songs, 
playing...

gregory

i see him in my dreams,
always wearing
a light blue polo shirt
and brown shorts.
his smile shines
like diamonds.
he's beautiful,
like a poem
as if
Neruda wrote him. 
like a song
lennon and mccartney wrote.

i've never met him,
i never will.

i see him in my dreams,
always wearing 
that light blue polo shirt
and brown shorts.
his sharp black hair.
his peach skin.
his brown, 
orb eyes.
i love him a little
too much
for someone i've never
  met.
but what's in your mind
isn't unreal.
he's real.
i believe
he's real.
he feels like destiny,
i call him
gregory.

rom-coms are overrated

rom-coms.

perfect guy.
six-feet tall, 
six-pack abs,
baby-blue iris,
majestically flowing hair,

falls in love with, of course,
perfect girl.
five-feet four,
long, brown, wavering hair,
oversized sweatshirts,
always cute. 
dimpled smile.

they go out for a couple of weeks,
big fight, 
(always on issues like
'trust' and
'betrayal', what even are those?)
they break up.

three months later,
epic monologue,
girl's impressed,
guy wins back girl.
they kiss in the end (obviously, because why not)

well, then, 
let's do a reality check.
you,
five-feet six,
always frustrated.
your shirts don't fit
your hair's shit.
you put on some gel,
congrats, it's worse now.

fall for girl,
average-looking,
still way out of your league.
cute smile,
messy hair,
emotionally unstable,
attention-seeker,
posts sad quotes on instagram.

you ask her out,
ha! in your dreams.
you sit there,
gawking at her for a week.
until the hunk asks her out.
she says yes,
they go out for a day,
a big...

Newspapers

He’s dead now,
The old newspaper seller.

He sat behind 
An old, grubby brown desk,
Stained with food
Contrasting with the decaying wood,
The old newspaper seller.

Behind him was a black newspaper stand,
The paint peeling off,
Silvery white in places.
Filled with 
Colourless sheets of bullshit,
They call ‘news’

He sat there the whole day,
under the scorching heat,
Sweat falling off his forehead,
Like bits of diamonds.
He sat there with a quiet smile,
His lively eyes,
Hidden beneath his broken glasses,
Every day,
Beside the deserted street,
No one ever came to.

Well, not no one,
There was this 
ungrateful lot of children,
Who went everyday
To school.
They walked the dead street,
Passing the old newspaper seller.

He would call them,
And hand them copies of the daily,
With his fat little fingers,
Stained in black.
They would laugh,
and would tear up the pages,
Ruthlessly,
And throw them back,
At the old newspaper seller.
...

emma

blinding lights,
strike my eyes.
pupils dilate.
it's all a rush.
i feel the prick
of a syringe,
puncturing my arm.
my mind sedates.
goes to sleep.
the last thing i see
is my husband
against the blurred hospital walls.
and then,
i pass out.

it feels like an eternity,
when i wake up again.
bright lights.
i can't see.
i hear whispers;
doctors and nurses
running around
in their funny white clothes.
i suddenly feel pain.
i scream.
but it'll be worth it.
we'll have a girl.
we'll call her emma,
won't we?

we'll be happy,
once again.
the sun shall shine again.
god
will bless us again.
i smile,
and i drink the pain.
the word
'emma'
spills in my mind,
as i pass out again.

the next time i wake up,
i'm sure that this will be the time.
this is it.
i won't have to pass out again.
time stretches.
flashes of green
and pink
flicker...

ok i'm back

guess who's back? 
me. 

i already told ya that i wasn't depressed or something; was just down since the last week or so. AnYwAYs, I was inactive for one whole day, and i count that as a break. Honestly, i didn't write anything, didn't even THINK of writing something (jk that's a lie i thought of recreating another Shakespeare play) BUT, that's not the point at all, the point is, i took a break, regardless of how many hours it included, and I'm back now! If you think that like, 1 day is too less, my power nap is 7 minutes max, so you should prolly ignore my earlier post about the break. I missed you so much, WtW 'start writing' interface UwU

Also, my most-liked piece EVER, 'Dear Mother', was taken down because it discussed violence so i'm kinda sad
(and angry .\ /.) Nevertheless, It'll forever remain in my heart, and my portfolio.

So, well, it is what...

My First Ever User Contest! #Conficiens (CLOSED)

Ok, I know that a lot of competitions are going on at the moment, but I had some really good prompts and I wanna connect better with WTW, and so, here it is. Also, I know that I don't have a lot of followers, and so I'll try to repost this as much as I can. Please try to participate, it would mean a lot :)

Ok so, here goes nothing!

Prompt 1-Fanfiction
Ok, here's a list of all the things you can make a fanfic of-

-Brooklyn Nine-Nine 
-The Big Bang Theory
-Friends
-Sherlock (Do a mystery thriller!)
-The Avengers
-Harry Potter
-Money Heist/La Casa De Papel

This is one of my best prompts, and I expect a great response to this one!

Form-Short Story
Word Limit-1000 words 

Prompt 2- Creative Writing
Ok, so this one's good. What you need to do is, take an ordinary event, and portray it in an interesting form. Be descriptive, it'll turn out...

six horizontal stripes | final draft

six horizontal stripes
signifying infinite capability, infinit
e capacity, infinite strength, infinite emotions.

six horizontal stripes
signifying unity, harmony, togetherness.

six horizontal stripes
that we accept as our own.

this is merely a work of imagination.
the truth
is even better.


red    
red depicts love. it depicts power. it depicts passion. it depicts restlessness. red is sweet, like the face of a strawberry, just as summer knocks on your door. but that's not it; red can be aggressive, red can be acrid, like the flaming hot flakes you pour on your pizza. but red is also poetic. red is the field of poppies, blooming in harmony as they welcome spring. red is the last hue of the sky before the day sleeps. red are the shriveled up autumn leaves, which crunch beneath your feet. red is the colour of rubies. red is priceless. red is everlasting. red is irreversible. red is life. 

orange    
orange depicts healing. it depicts joy. it depicts...

Is it time for a QnA? (If this flops we'll pretend it never happened :)

I haven't reached a hundred followers, not 50 followers, not 30 followers. I'm just hanging in the middle there. But that's not a reason to not have a QnA! I saw a few QnA's and it looks fun, and
SO *excited whispers*
HERE'S *loud murmuring*
MY *Children and maidens screaming*

*DRUMROLL*

MY VERY OWN QNA!

Yeah, that was all I had planned for this evening. What are you waiting for?
Ask away!

labyrinth

i rub the sleep
out of my lifeless eyes
everything
is falling apart.
everything is incomplete.
my sleeves smell of tears,
and taste like salt.
my lips are always dry.
i haven't smiled
in days.

i can't sleep.
ghosts of my past,
memories,
haunt me
when i lie down to sleep.
memories of better times.
simpler times.
with people I remember,
nights I don’t.
people i now hate.

scenes from movies,
bits of books.
the past,
haunts me.
not just the past.
memories of places
i have never been to.
lavender fields in france,
villages in italy.
faces i've never seen.

what do i do,
when the day ends?
what do i do,
when christmas is over?
when the lights dim again,
and i'm left
with that feeling 
of emptiness in my stomach?
that wretched feeling.
when i'm back to my miserable life,
of fake friends,
and incomplete assignments?
what do i do?

i'm drowning.
drowning in my thoughts.
dying...

I Buried My Dog #Something Unique

My heart shatters as I looked at him,
the lifeless body of my dog,
And the pieces pierce my soul.
He lay there, wearing
his shaggy, dirty coat.
His little paws, which I often held,
now immobile.
His huge, orb eyes, now lay closed.
I move a little ahead to pick him up,
and as I hold him from his belly,
he doesn’t start barking.
he doesn’t even whimper.
The weight of the moment stuns me.
Yesterday, I had been playing with him.
I’d given him a ball and he’d returned it.
I’d patted him on his head
and given him a biscuit.
He had stood on his hind legs,
and clutched me in an embrace.

And here he was,
his tongue dangling over,
and his little heart dead.
I carry him out to the backyard,
and I lay him down.
I still can’t believe it,
my son’s no more.
I look at the packets of his biscuits 
kept in...

Free Reviews!

I dunno, I guess I'm in a good mood today, and I haven't got a lot of time lately to read your work, and so I'll like to make it up! Also, I need some new ideas, don't worry, I won't cheat off you, what I do is, I just take a word or a phrase I like, regardless of context, and I make a poem out of it! So, that's what I'll be doing. And if there's one thing I hate, IT'S INCOMPLETE REVIEWS. You know, the one without highlighting the text? WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT!? And so, by review, I mean a decent, detailed review, like thisone. Also, I sometimes end up procrastinating a lot, so please gimme upto 2 days for the review, if I don't, then feel free to comment again, because sometimes things get lost in that vicious circle. Same with the fact that I may have missed yours. 2 days minimum before...

yellow

i walk in the room,
the room with the huge, white walls
staring blankly at me.
my eyes adjust to the light. 
it takes some time,
my eyes hurt now. 
suddenly,
the ceiling splits open,
and then

yellow.

yellow paint pours out.
it pours like rain.
it pours like your love.
it engulfs everything in its path. 
shatters everything. 
the white walls drown in yellow. 
the paint splashes down to the floor.
it floods the room. 
it reaches me,
the paint feels like happiness.
it plops on my hair, 
and moves to my shoulder. 
it drips on my body.
my bare skin. 
it mingles with the hair.
i close my eyes 
and let it
surround me.
engulf me.
fill me.
complete me. 
i open my eyes
there's no white now.
only yellow. 
like a spring of daffodils,
like the sun in a kid’s drawing.
like your soul on a monday morning
like that heart you sent to your crush 
on...

chemistry class

i walk in late,
teacher’s there
already.
she mumbles
and i sit down.
take out my file
a pen and a pencil.
forgot the scale.
some formulas on
the board.
i don’t know them.
vomit them 
on the page.
test tubes on the desk,
i feel like throwing them,
shattering
into a million pieces
like my dreams.
bright blue 
copper sulphate
glum as ever-
the teacher shouts,
breaks my analogy.
i start scribbling away.
ink on my lips,
graphite on fingertips.
scribbling
scribbling away.
mg+ o2=mgo
damn, i just hit a new low.
carbon forms covalent,
when will this ever end?
basic + acid makes salts,
I wouldn’t be interested
if it made meth.
test tomorrow,
the teacher says.
words stick in my mind
test
test tomorrow.
not prepared,
never prepared.
what if i fail 
ah, i’ll just become
a gardener then :)

 

Enumeration

5 types of kids every school has

1. The Rude Backbencher

Always sits at the back of the class. Hangs around with two other boys exactly the same as him. Overweight. Always keeps his collar up. Passes unspeakably gross comments to the pretty girl. Talks to the teacher so horrendously that you actually feel sorry for the teacher. Smells like thirteen cans of deodorant.

2. The Funny Backbencher

You know that there are two types of backbenchers, right? The rude, evil ones and the cute, loveable, and funny ones. The funny ones are mischievous, but they're also good at their studies, and so, well, it kind of balances out. The teachers secretly adore them. The students admire them. Average marks, sometimes compete with the toppers, too. Always standing in front of the Principal's office. Middle of all controversies. Highly misunderstood. Almost prodigies. Have an attitude problem.

3. The Pretty Girl
    

You know that you like her, but you JUST WON'T ADMIT IT. Really cute, wears her...

An Ode To Fathers #mysecondcontest8

This 
is an ode to fathers
all around the world.
Regardless of borders
of worlds
of universes
of genres
(Yes, that was a hint to what this will be)

An ode to Jack Geller,
for being always there for his children,
An ode to Chris Gardener,
for reminding us to never give up on our dream.
An ode to Red Forman,
for showing us that love can be found in the hardest of hearts.
An ode to Mufasa,
for teaching us bravery.

An ode to fathers, all around the world,
to your father, 
and to mine,
for sleeping till two in the afternoon,
for singing in a horrendous voice
at eleven in the night,
for always being so hard on us,
for always saving our asses,
for being our siblings,
for being our friends
but most importantly,
for always being there for us.
After all, 
'He's your father, Luke' :)
Thanks a lot, fathers all around the world,
This is an...

The Cathedral Of Broken Dreams

in a town not far away
is a church, 
the cathedral of broken dreams,
they call it.
shut down,
chains on its gate
people speculate
speculate,
but no one knows why
it's called that.

some say that once,
there was this woman
old. 
usual, dark hair,
wrinkly skin,
wry hands,
wise eyes.

her husband, 
a priest,
deeply in love.
even more deeply in debt.
so he went to the parish one night,
and
he tied a knot.
and so that was it.
he was found hanging 
the next day.
and that's how came,
the beautiful name.

some say that
once you enter the gates,
you can never leave again.
but people laugh at them,
'The Eagles didn't write this'
they say.

they say that
ghosts live there.
monsters and spirit,
roam around,
the humble abode of Satan,
they call it.

Centuries since,
it's been closed.
people speculate,
and speculate still,
but no knows,
what is,
The Cathedral Of Broken Dreams
 

The Fight for Justice

How To Kill A Spirit #mysecondcontest7

It’s not easy, killing a spirit.
It needs strength, a tedious superiority complex,
Casual racism, and utmost hate. 
When you have all this, you get in the queue to wait.
Thousands are ahead of you, 
And thousands are behind, in this really long queue. 
You stay there in peace and pain, through storms and rain,
But it’s not all in vain.
Because one day your chance arrives.
You see what your predecessors have done,
You see the blood and the sweat flowing through history,
Staining it as one. 
It’s not as if they didn’t put up a fight,
Because they did. 
Because Rosa Parks did
Because Martin Luther did
Because Gandhi did
Because Angela Davis did
Because Nelson Mandela did. 
But that doesn’t bother you, does it?
You take out your gun and 
you shoot at Michael Brown.
But the spirit, it doesn’t die.
So you shoot Gregory Gunn, 
And it still doesn’t die.
Then you shoot Aaron Sterling, 
You...

The Infinites

 
Sam sat down on his chair which was kept in the center of the room, along with a small desk, and a glass capsule like apparatus which stretched from the floor to the roof of the all-white room, and plopped down the brown duffel bag that he carried around everywhere. Today was his work anniversary, 7th of June, the day he had joined the Infinites. The Infinites were recruited in the year 2050, soon after most of humanity had collapsed due to a biological war between the States and China. The remaining group of people had continued their ventures in science, and soon developed infinite ageing. These were the Infinites. Sam was one of them. He had been thirty-three when he joined the group. It was seventy years now. He was still thirty-three. Let’s talk a little more about this rather intriguing group of people. The Infinites are responsible for controlling the population of the world. There are seven Infinite...

states of complete and absolute euphoria

the soft fragrance,
of wet soil,

the weather
just before a rain, 

the aroma of
tea being made,

the first sip
of a glass of cold coffee,

listening
to your favourite playlist,
after a long day.

a splash of water
in the scorching heat,

the first bite of ice cream,
in mid-summer.

lying in bed,
covered in a blanket 
on a freezing cold night.

completing a book
you've been reading for months.

laughing 
after hours of crying.

submitting an assignment,
exactly on time.

seeing yourself laugh,
in childhood photographs.

buying a gift
for which
you've been saving up.

seeing you
like this post :)




 

platonic

i see her at school,
just a bench away from me,
and the first thing that comes to my mind isn’t ‘she’s hot’.
it’s ‘she’s cute’ 
cute’s innocent.
cute’s loveable.
the way she flicks her hair,
my heart melts through my eyes.
the way she smiles, a little
over-the-top, if you ask me,
but it’s the only thing close to perfect,
I’ll ever see.
my soul smiles.
everything’s dark, but except her.
she makes me see everything
in a tint of pink and gold.
rainbows colour the sky,
the sky turns pink,
birds sing.
as i watch her, just a bench away.

i don’t look at her legs,
because i simply can’t,
her eyes are so beautiful,
why would i ever look away?
and I keep watching her talk, 
her lips moving,
her eyes dancing,
as the whole world fades out,
in this love,
   purely platonic love.

Blank

I gaze into the blankness, 
My eyes comforted in the calmness.
A single moment of silence, 
A moment neither happy nor sad,
A moment, a vacant moment.
The rushing mind stops,
All around, a hush drops.
A visit to an inanimate town,
As the ego breaks down.
A purpose still to find,
For life has been too unkind.
Something needs to be done at all costs,
For everything not saved will be lost,
For there won’t be anything left to mend,
As the life in me comes to an end

An Oak Tree #PrettyContest

‘I stood under an oak tree,
Waiting for you, my love,
I watch a breeze blow,
My heart becomes slow.
I guess it’s true,
That I long for you, too.
I remember seeing you for the first time,
Our eyes met, made it seem like a crime.
I remember we had many a spree
Under this very tree,
This branched Oak tree.

For the hundredth time, I look over the branches’ pile,
Searching again, for your glorious smile.
I smell again the clear air, 
Trying to get a whiff of your alluring hair. 
I think of it as a prize, your stunning eyes.
Branches creak,
As a tear rolls down my cheek.
I feel the rose I brought for you,
A spike pierces my finger,
A drop of blood,
And my tears flood.
And I know you made me try,
As I look to the heavens and cry.
For you, I became a poet
And if you don’t turn up,...

Food Writing Competition 2020

Chai Tea

I walk into the kitchen to the light fragrance of ginger and basil being boiled in water, all too familiar. I never personally drank tea. My mother taught me how to make it, and so that's what I did. I made tea and I never drank it. So, I walk in on my mother making tea. The slow music of the the steel vessel hissing against the flame beneath it is almost constant. She has already added the basil and crushed ginger by the time I enter. I watch her add a sprinkle of cinnamon, and a pleasant scent fills the air. Now, after she keeps it on low heat for a while, the cinnamon completely dissolves in the water, which is almost steam by now. Then comes the second part. Black tea. The loose tea is kept in a glass jar in one of the drawers beside the stove. I smell the contents of the jar, and I'm clearly...

Edward- A Tragedy (Part 3) #ollie1stcomp

After days of voyage,
He reached his doorstep,
And with joy he leapt;
‘Mary! Oh beautiful Mary!
Look what I found! 
A hundred golden coins,
Brought safe and sound!’
He knocked, and knocked again, 
But all was in vain.
Like a typical folklore,
He ran towards, and broke the wooden door.
And something worse than death,
Indeed, was waiting at the door.
Streams of gore flowed,
Blood stained the floor.
The lifeless fairy lay along with her mother
Smothered in blood, just like the other.
The Prince dropped to his knees with the saddest sigh,
His heart sank, as he looked in her crystal eye. 
He kissed his stiff wife and shuddered to the bone,
And held his daughter, cold as a stone.
In one hand the Prince, held the gold coins,
And in the other, held his extinct girl.
And so, in one was his ambition,
And the other held his dream. 
But the poor Prince,
Couldn’t use either...

Ezra - A Psychological Thriller

Ezra opened the door to his single-bed apartment room, and limped out to a dimly lit hallway, at the end of which was a short staircase. He had a large duffel bag in his hand, which had an acrid, horrible stench. The floor was carpeted in red with golden borders, but the crimson red bloodstains were easily visible. There was not a lot of light, though. A single bulb illuminated the hallway in a yellowish glow. Ezra wasn’t his real name. But then again, no one knew what his real name was, so let’s call him Ezra. He staggered to the staircase. He wore a dirty striped shirt,
which had spots of blood on it. The dried blood had now stuck on the fabrics, and Ezra didn’t bother to clean it. He also wore dark brown corduroy pants. His hair was ruffled, as usual. His right sock was also the home to a Glock 20, which he always kept there....

Edward- A Tragedy (Part 3) #ollie1stcomp

After days of voyage,
He reached his doorstep,
And with joy he leapt;
‘Mary! Oh beautiful Mary!
Look what I found! 
A hundred golden coins,
Brought safe and sound!’
He knocked, and knocked again, 
But all was in vain.
Like a typical folklore,
He ran towards, and broke the wooden door.
And something worse than death,
Indeed, was waiting at the door.
Streams of gore flowed,
Blood stained the floor.
The lifeless fairy lay along with her mother
Smothered in blood, just like the other.
The Prince dropped to his knees with the saddest sigh,
His heart sank, as he looked in her crystal eye. 
He kissed his stiff wife and shuddered to the bone,
And held his daughter, cold as a stone.
In one hand the Prince, held the gold coins,
And in the other, held his extinct girl.
And so, in one was his ambition,
And the other held his dream. 
But the poor Prince,
Couldn’t use either...

Edward- A Tragedy (Part 2)

He woke up to a beautiful dawn,
All the fatigue gone. 
He bathed in warm water,
After a decade or so, and got dressed with thoughts of his daughter.
The sky was filled with echoes of the drum
For the day had finally come.
Thousands thronged the field,
Where he was to, his weapons yield.
He picked up his sword,
And climbed down the ward.
His fears were behind,
For he’d made up his mind.
‘Defeat the devil’ He chanted,
‘Defeat the devil’ 
And he walked to the middle of the grass,
As the murmuring spectators watched him pass.
He reached his ground,
And with a slash of his sword, shook the ground. 
In front of him, the crowd became thin,
And revealed the Lord. 
His dark eyes glaring,
His heavy muscles flaring.
His blood-stained hands,
And his two knives.
Our Prince broke a sweat,
And took a step with dread. 
A chill went down his spine,
While the king...

Edward- A Tragedy (Part 1)

The prince sat on his horse,
And rode towards the throne,
For he had gotten a clue, a tip from a source.
He bid goodbye to his child and his wife,
And vowed to win for the love of his life.
He sheathed his golden sword,
And pledged to kill the dreaded lord.
He reached the majestic palace, 
the vivid blue-domed hall, 
beside it the arena’s vibrant wall.
He went in, waved to the guard
and bowed down to the king.
He was acknowledged,
His name was put down.
“Who do you want to battle?”
The guard asked him,
“The Lord” whispered he.
The court gasped,
But the king was now happy,
Hoping for a blast.
The crown blessed 
and sent him to rest.

october sky #LBC12

yellow leaves fall from the trees,
and crunch beneath my feet,
The cold wind caresses my skin,
And the weather smells like sin.
the tree which bloomed once with its full might, 
dreads this day of plight.
in the clouds, a streak of light,
and the clouds, bluer than the velvet night
in the clearing, a field of rosemarys.
bare feet, I brush against the grass,
but you aren't there, alas. 
the setting sun, reminds me of you.
if only I knew...
it's pretty late now,
and i'm not sure I know what rhymes with 'now'
and oh I forgot, here's that last line you asked for

Fragment Of A Dream

‘On a cold winter night, fed up of the lies,
I closed for a while my eyes.
As I wandered about with my athanasy,
Around me a world of fantasy.
Beside me chalets of men wise,
Above high bright orange skies.
In the distance lay abandoned walls,
And beside them standing she was.
Bright blue eyes she had,
Just standing there made you feel glad.
Blazing golden strands of hair,
Made you forgot where you were.
She looked at me and gave a coy smile
As I stood there gazing for a while.
On the bright lazy day, the fluttering wheat, The brown grass brushing up against her bare feet.
It seemed like love I had found at last,
As the minutes felt like years had passed. 
It seemed like great men had stood upon this very spot, had come and had gone,
And she hadn’t as much as upon them her sight bestowed.
The minutes turned into hours,
And...

Food Writing Competition 2020

Chai Tea

I walk into the kitchen to the light fragrance of ginger and basil being boiled in water, all too familiar. I never personally drank tea. My mother taught me how to make it, and so that's what I did. I made tea and I never drank it. So, I walk in on my mother making tea. The slow music of the the steel vessel hissing against the flame beneath it is almost constant. She has already added the basil and crushed ginger by the time I enter. I watch her add a sprinkle of cinnamon, and a pleasant scent fills the air. Now, after she keeps it on low heat for a while, the cinnamon completely dissolves in the water, which is almost steam by now. Then comes the second part. Black tea. The loose tea is kept in a glass jar in one of the drawers beside the stove. I smell the contents of the jar, and I'm clearly...

Photograph

‘With a tear in my eye,
And a small sigh,
I took out a photo
In which sat, a face aglow.
A bracelet with bead broken
And deep black hair open.
Wearing a somber black dress,
And a pearl white necklace.
An earring that glows, 
And a very perfect nose.
And It’s been a while,
Since that good a smile.
Looking away, warm brown eyes, 
And a face indeed wise.
And with a gaze even warmer,
I held the picture with the rounded-off corner.
And as the photo stared at me, wanting to laugh, I realised this was the last photograph. 

And then with a tear in my eye, 
And a small sigh,
And with one last look at the pretty face,
I dropped the photo in the fireplace.
And after a long moment, it was finally gone, gone without a trace.'

Paradise

'As you open your window, 
And glance  upon this earth,
This harsh world, dearth of love.
The hate spews and floods away,
And the flowers start to sway.
The setting sun colours the sky pink,
As passion drowns the realm like ink.
The moon erupts in the brazen skies
As the stars twinkle in your vibrant eyes.
Your eyes agleam, it seems like a dream.
Your tender lips curved in a faint smile,
Such delicate, that the splendid night blushes awhile.
And I will be wise enough so,
To take you to paradise.
And I hope paradise,
Is as beautiful as you.'

I Wish They Had an App for That

BookValue

As an avid reader, I've around 300 books at my house, most of which were bought secondhand at cheaper rates than a brand new one. A lot of them are in a pretty good condition, and most importantly, first-generation books. For example, I recently bought a copy of The Hobbit, first generation copy with the green and blue-ish cover and inscribed runes. And of course, it would actually have a lot of value.if put up for auction. And so, what we need is an app which can tell us the approximate value and importance of our copies of famous books. Generally, people have copies of Harry Potter which are worth thousands of dollars, and they don't even know it. The app should scan the book (the barcode or something, I'm not pretty sure), with the camera and then search it's approximate value. The server can be connected with numerous auction sites so that we can get the best price!