tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56164540399190350972024-02-20T09:50:55.160-08:00Verse of silenceAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.comBlogger53125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-37933051548351182172017-10-09T00:01:00.001-07:002017-10-09T00:01:39.703-07:00Now and Then I Live Eternities <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKuLuzoJR43Q2__LX_t_5An3227IbGThSubOPXmeu7WsO98pfhVXVHXgQWGxT3ZySEunLw5y0KYAsRNJ_eU3imTxS-y6xRyOQMYj24k-u09u89tCFziUVr23O4Uzbi7xoU0SpIYNi9MM/s1600/now.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="497" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKuLuzoJR43Q2__LX_t_5An3227IbGThSubOPXmeu7WsO98pfhVXVHXgQWGxT3ZySEunLw5y0KYAsRNJ_eU3imTxS-y6xRyOQMYj24k-u09u89tCFziUVr23O4Uzbi7xoU0SpIYNi9MM/s320/now.jpg" width="318" /></a></div>
fall under my shine<br />
dear<br />
for you and me belong<br />
to the same set of waves<br />
that paint us in the kind of love<br />
people die of<br />
and reject<br />
in the name of immorality<br />
and lack of consistency<br />
for I often remain a part of your dreams<br />
and you of my unwritten parole<br />
from what I say words that sting<br />
the edge of my tongue<br />
and right under the pile of<br />
emotions you lie on<br />
for I am with you<br />
a lover of no existence<br />
WITHOUT YOU<br />
I survive a million days<br />
a million seconds<br />
now and then<br />
I live eternities.<br />
<br />
Artist : <complete id="goog_1865488632">@artidote </complete></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-1106488144598155992017-09-03T09:03:00.001-07:002017-09-03T09:03:43.068-07:00grave <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmqIP4HsE0edSj-lpgSBSNqtj8CkQe8H-FnRI6fVXfBj-btThpeUSHJQzptmphvFbAJd10ko8__-DZgEhXoKJUvTRbSMWTsZj9rky3e5ci50rvP7YIaa1kHWHmyPLhglR9NQtWBy3i-iY/s1600/artidote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="724" data-original-width="500" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmqIP4HsE0edSj-lpgSBSNqtj8CkQe8H-FnRI6fVXfBj-btThpeUSHJQzptmphvFbAJd10ko8__-DZgEhXoKJUvTRbSMWTsZj9rky3e5ci50rvP7YIaa1kHWHmyPLhglR9NQtWBy3i-iY/s320/artidote.jpg" width="220" /></a></div>
but darling,<br />
there was a time<br />
when i was so whole<br />
my crevices cracked<br />
of my fullness,<br />
now<br />
i am open for<br />
you and them<br />
to put my pieces<br />
back in my grave. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-5636207902039733622017-09-03T08:58:00.000-07:002017-09-03T08:58:09.719-07:00I like my men vulnerable <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdapbjOYnVWzsOMxdXkk_3c9qfsNJGBCQwl1YsrVBfBPl9hjlNezsoqd-bJsnMSulgaNRpcNyH3keaZ4czlPz9lztrSx5zjb86bH2zDnPzv7i-5ThgfwD9OZiWrM3KIu3C2kK6nlsHyH0/s1600/artidote+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="269" data-original-width="187" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdapbjOYnVWzsOMxdXkk_3c9qfsNJGBCQwl1YsrVBfBPl9hjlNezsoqd-bJsnMSulgaNRpcNyH3keaZ4czlPz9lztrSx5zjb86bH2zDnPzv7i-5ThgfwD9OZiWrM3KIu3C2kK6nlsHyH0/s320/artidote+1.jpg" width="222" /></a></div>
But then moments back, I was lost under the same sky you shunned away as yours? Are privileged are you in love?<br />
<br />
Dear,<br />
They tell me you've been softer before<br />
but breaking hearts is an art you learned<br />
when women grew looser. Their exposure was as reckless as the emotions you clutch under your cold fists. I've been there, been sat on and crushed by a man who gave me slow breathless kisses but then went away to find happiness in women who fell in his arms, right after the ruin. Love making can be tough among strong men history teaches you to be.<br />
<br />
But listen,<br />
I like my men vulnerable, the one who looks into my eyes holding back his years of turmoil and love, the one who gives in the moment he sees my arms open, the one who kisses scared to be left by me, the one who isn't reckless but is careful of the falling rain on our sullen faces, the one who puts me to sleep when night isn't close by, the one who gazes at me from far off corners, the one who cries when hurt, the one who i can call mine, the one who softens every second of the life we share, the one who isn't tough when in need.<br />
I like my men, the way they like me. Hopeless and vulnerable.<br />
<br />
Artist : @artidote love</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-59335770434452740072017-07-24T07:58:00.001-07:002017-07-24T07:58:56.779-07:00SOME DAYS <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KruMFxmULosToRJnE33bckTm53CGBxcvOkalUvPPls0VFBGZ1RHVS9AM7WRyA2Z7Wyb41AoOB7vtgGZHA-OggdKyjjb8ZbXOcw8JhZ5clN6_SY64EJGOM3Af4lIkZ9NalsFUZ9J8A7M/s1600/artidote.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="783" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1KruMFxmULosToRJnE33bckTm53CGBxcvOkalUvPPls0VFBGZ1RHVS9AM7WRyA2Z7Wyb41AoOB7vtgGZHA-OggdKyjjb8ZbXOcw8JhZ5clN6_SY64EJGOM3Af4lIkZ9NalsFUZ9J8A7M/s400/artidote.jpg" width="305" /></a></div>
some days you are more<br />
than just a memory,<br />
some days you are <br />
a mirage with no trick<br />
to catch,<br />
some days you are as<br />
hazy as our first kiss,<br />
some days you grow<br />
in my chest like a<br />
pelting pain,<br />
some days it's easier to<br />
look at you with eyes closed,<br />
some days i melt<br />
under your skin,<br />
some days i fear<br />
your departure,<br />
some days you leave me<br />
notes with no love,<br />
some days i scoup<br />
from your fantasies,<br />
some days I am as<br />
delusional as your existence,<br />
some days, you come closer<br />
with no intent,<br />
some days I see you<br />
sitting on the moon,<br />
some days I breathe heavy<br />
catching hold of<br />
nothing more than my<br />
own forgiven conscience<br />
and that's when i know <br />
that some days i dream<br />
a little too hard. <br />
<br />
Image Credits : Artidote </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-5612765298132959222017-07-16T12:41:00.001-07:002017-07-16T12:43:03.711-07:00//Behind your Back// <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagYsrp08UQnyVB3BuvL-XgeXltgHRd94c2emhz9AmXpM4KAB8lhDNtSYET9bsxmHU0Ju0dUKGG6NGcR-5epv5wKWU-m6Teb5LxCnyzuLfuofVW_Lyiw_1QZ0poWn_BHQ0ABB404lp1TM/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1104" data-original-width="736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjagYsrp08UQnyVB3BuvL-XgeXltgHRd94c2emhz9AmXpM4KAB8lhDNtSYET9bsxmHU0Ju0dUKGG6NGcR-5epv5wKWU-m6Teb5LxCnyzuLfuofVW_Lyiw_1QZ0poWn_BHQ0ABB404lp1TM/s400/1.jpg" width="266" /></a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnYKtntq0EJy7aDlsWnx446kYRRGqWN7Pduc9AKAWRGwbwFZ0v3V9eSeFw3gKGBiVfcOWDUgrtGhDVQu7-k1E9fjJ52pw6_nUnQBHK-rU4vGQVvueuTDU7hnbNh7J7NlLEZ01x1gTD-cg/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; display: inline !important; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">how many times have you gone back </a><br />
to scratching your old wounds?<br />
Healed, they stay there<br />
reflecting a forgone time<br />
of lost consciousness<br />
and drunken amazement,<br />
here you are<br />
sitting and loitering<br />
back in a time<br />
that passed away in seconds<br />
walking on a path full of<br />
wet sand and cranky winds<br />
they begin to define you now<br />
and yet<br />
you go back to it<br />
for the kind of solace<br />
that only makes you drop<br />
down your shoulders <br />
till world itself<br />
rejects you sorry apologies<br />
and half dead attempts<br />
to go on in life.<br />
How long?<br />
how long have you been<br />
waiting with your eyes shut<br />
for your tears to push through<br />
and take a final fall of resistance ,<br />
to sit adamant on your dried skin<br />
and lie unassisted<br />
on your curling heart,<br />
it bleeds no more?<br />
are you listening?<br />
to those murmurs<br />
slow whispers,<br />
thrilling silences;<br />
they still talk about you<br />
only this time<br />
behind your back.<br />
<br />
image- @pinterest </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-76631546867923365122017-03-23T12:25:00.000-07:002017-03-23T12:25:43.778-07:00MEMOIRS <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZDAPN18nDpIcHdTLeb56UpF4qS9Z5FPfpTrfS_sgb_WECzo9q_kZVO5FgiAjU0dkFu0WZihbRg8F37X2M5AjLqnMIujlx4HA4XTzK-AVlNGXU6cK9_mvn-n67VRq1YD-tS_Hubqk8KQ/s1600/camera.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ZDAPN18nDpIcHdTLeb56UpF4qS9Z5FPfpTrfS_sgb_WECzo9q_kZVO5FgiAjU0dkFu0WZihbRg8F37X2M5AjLqnMIujlx4HA4XTzK-AVlNGXU6cK9_mvn-n67VRq1YD-tS_Hubqk8KQ/s400/camera.jpg" width="278" /></a></div>
I have memoirs within me, they unfurl when I travel alone, noticing and un-noticing many that pass by. Sometimes they belong to me so I smile engendering memories we shared and bred together. I click and click till they blink their eyes and vanish but then there are those I don't know, those new to my existence, those who pass by without smiles and warmth, those who are busy making memories with their own people, those who have their own clicks, those who have their own memoirs. Those who don't belong to me and yet every time I travel alone they pass by me and it clicks.<br />
<br />
Image - Pinterest </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0Nottingham, UK52.954783199999987 -1.158108599999991452.801723699999989 -1.4808320999999913 53.107842699999985 -0.83538509999999144tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-91894984230251088872017-03-10T07:18:00.001-08:002017-03-10T07:18:53.833-08:00HE MADE MY VEINS <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObsiDum00HgAvdKFr8UuTT_5RLoqI37_QcCuQ-NwHTU2hCKT7cs7HsMVuoUxV-xGIvzGAFoSUzlBmjfX5Tts4qGjvl8di5YW5_PQ7xqSGfECbGbbJy3e8cmIVLbruaLY4cwe1p3Nk7FA/s1600/veins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgObsiDum00HgAvdKFr8UuTT_5RLoqI37_QcCuQ-NwHTU2hCKT7cs7HsMVuoUxV-xGIvzGAFoSUzlBmjfX5Tts4qGjvl8di5YW5_PQ7xqSGfECbGbbJy3e8cmIVLbruaLY4cwe1p3Nk7FA/s400/veins.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
I have unmade veins, they are a mix of green and blue, traveling through whatever little is left of me. They are no maps to where my intention lies, they are his doing, he made them to find my own ways, ingesting hollowing smoke into them, puncturing my flesh, oh! there is none left. They spread among the redishness of my burnt skin, he often leaves his traces down where he travels. You won't find me, I am lost within my own veins.<br />
<br />
<br />
Image- Pinterest </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0Nottingham, UK52.954783199999987 -1.158108599999991452.801723699999989 -1.4808320999999913 53.107842699999985 -0.83538509999999144tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-54397634145881450182017-03-03T06:38:00.000-08:002017-03-03T06:38:54.635-08:00WOMEN TO NAME NO SCARS AFTER <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vKopBFgQKh2nv84rp_L-US-pxwJCdf6o3eU4_0hfJCQIQoAC6OJ5Fh_n14Km5SLvnHb9gGXNpjBCu1q9ptEq4kHg02xmS__TH6czlbf4t-uBSAcIMYR6F_ifU4AcZOsY7JihxYG6nvg/s1600/hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-vKopBFgQKh2nv84rp_L-US-pxwJCdf6o3eU4_0hfJCQIQoAC6OJ5Fh_n14Km5SLvnHb9gGXNpjBCu1q9ptEq4kHg02xmS__TH6czlbf4t-uBSAcIMYR6F_ifU4AcZOsY7JihxYG6nvg/s320/hand.jpg" width="219" /></a></div>
I call myself a man with open wounds, fresh air and sun fills up my entrails with love and loathe, blood rushing to the ends. I have no women to name these scars after and yet I have them evidently placed under my sleeve, that's where all of them left their slippery kisses hidden to reconcile with in times ahead. None of them returned. I drew a line every time she left me with a staying smile and then in no time I had too many to sustain. It was to remember the number of kisses I got in a lifetime, the number of women who left a part of their existence with me, the number of women who moved on without taking them back but it was too late to realize that my number of scars long proceeded the number of women who unloved me.<br />
<br />
image - @Pinterest </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0Nottingham, UK52.954783199999987 -1.158108599999991452.801723699999989 -1.4808320999999913 53.107842699999985 -0.83538509999999144tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-17259809812202689622017-02-24T06:11:00.000-08:002017-02-24T06:11:44.532-08:00HAVE YOU EVER FLOWN ? <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilj4_Nd0B0YECw7iEVnIU1aEDW_E7RRDP8jlNXE0P8PoyBQ6rxMYbkkQ9Rd4hULu7_wRO-lkrOjhLS4HZ4KWpuf6OuiBDb1IeIUnzFIkfctek-gR05bSbBZsPSMtIbpuCFVc9sdgXBZ0c/s1600/butterfly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilj4_Nd0B0YECw7iEVnIU1aEDW_E7RRDP8jlNXE0P8PoyBQ6rxMYbkkQ9Rd4hULu7_wRO-lkrOjhLS4HZ4KWpuf6OuiBDb1IeIUnzFIkfctek-gR05bSbBZsPSMtIbpuCFVc9sdgXBZ0c/s320/butterfly.jpg" width="247" /></a></div>
When I read, I fly off to unknown places. There are no people really, just characters, many of whom I like and connect with, many of whom I have despised, but then there are those I have fallen in love with. I look at them and they smile knowing that I know them, inside out, belonging to them. They know that they have my attention and have captured my soul, it has been long now. I feel freer than before knowing that they acknowledge my presence. Their gallantry and heart amazes me and I want to be like them, call them my own, represent them. I travel with them to places, breathing in the experiences alike. They are not just a fainting memory, they are much more than that. They are the ones I remember and smile myself to for having read good literature.<br />
Have you ever flown?<br />
<br />
image - Pinterest </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0Nottingham, UK52.954783199999987 -1.158108599999991452.801723699999989 -1.4808320999999913 53.107842699999985 -0.83538509999999144tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-46650357739741352242017-02-22T14:24:00.001-08:002017-02-22T14:24:53.550-08:00MORNING SUN <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwX4RhjZ_HFc2wUg-xzGTnC5EnOOa1pOAaaJqN5HIzFj4nViRCRQbbAKxVpoEmajJHN4X7_C5znGLgSqft4kTpQYgrUbCknpg4vUNcCM8hr1RFxhzsoHW7GNHRRrCvk9ajvWgze2mZMoY/s1600/morning+sun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwX4RhjZ_HFc2wUg-xzGTnC5EnOOa1pOAaaJqN5HIzFj4nViRCRQbbAKxVpoEmajJHN4X7_C5znGLgSqft4kTpQYgrUbCknpg4vUNcCM8hr1RFxhzsoHW7GNHRRrCvk9ajvWgze2mZMoY/s320/morning+sun.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Do you feel it? The way I do, the morning sun peeking through my half open window and un-ordered blue curtains. A landscape is my morning ritual. Do you feel the soggy rays falling on your dry skin, finding its space, settling. Do you feel it needing acknowledgement through your sealed eyes, you flicker and it rushes with all the warmth it sustains. Do you feel it sitting on your parched lips, open from last night's sleep. Do you see it forming beautiful messages on your body. Do you feel it befriending your slow exhausted smile. Do you feel the morning sun the way I do?<br />
<br />
Image - Pinterest </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0Nottingham, UK52.954783199999987 -1.158108599999991452.801723699999989 -1.4808320999999913 53.107842699999985 -0.83538509999999144tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-71773705166103765172017-02-20T06:29:00.001-08:002017-02-20T06:29:55.424-08:00WINDOW <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPRzmF76xmDWKLO0_v_CsZW-HTHnpen-4RSprAns1660fY0J0QtwVlRO-AqaFKNmtkeInVdLmn1-ujGboybbLr5BQS2iBjpQUijvGd7GzZ0soOHQl4bSa6h7EWpluQlwHgmzQLjGw-TQ/s1600/window.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPRzmF76xmDWKLO0_v_CsZW-HTHnpen-4RSprAns1660fY0J0QtwVlRO-AqaFKNmtkeInVdLmn1-ujGboybbLr5BQS2iBjpQUijvGd7GzZ0soOHQl4bSa6h7EWpluQlwHgmzQLjGw-TQ/s320/window.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
And sometimes I wonder at my forbearance to do nothing, contemplating on the time that I have wasted I'd think I haven't actually wasted any. No poems generate within my beating heart, no prose finding space within my shady brain, no inch of my open skin seek books and characters engendered are of no interest to me. Sometimes, I just want to look out of the window observing nothing, I don't crave fancy views and the only thing I really can focus on is emptiness. Sometimes, I crave it too much for it fills me with hope of abundance in future.<br />
Sometimes, I look out of the window for nothing.<br />
<br />
Image - Pinterest </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0Nottingham, UK52.954783199999987 -1.158108599999991452.801723699999989 -1.4808320999999913 53.107842699999985 -0.83538509999999144tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-35071830610883721272017-02-18T07:05:00.000-08:002017-02-18T07:05:03.540-08:00WINTER <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5Na9sdxCWYyIgVFd0vn88J1bdymO8_mrhDPgfdQJEoW797WyiJ_0eJjf_AFb-xJkws_7rRnbWatOWudWm7E5hHj44y4ebArRFH4dV0rO351w0a6lEjLOSNvDYy8lP_7IZNtrxUtPFTY/s1600/winter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl5Na9sdxCWYyIgVFd0vn88J1bdymO8_mrhDPgfdQJEoW797WyiJ_0eJjf_AFb-xJkws_7rRnbWatOWudWm7E5hHj44y4ebArRFH4dV0rO351w0a6lEjLOSNvDYy8lP_7IZNtrxUtPFTY/s320/winter.jpg" width="180" /></a>Sometimes, I feel the need to go out and stand in the cold, to face the alluding mist till exhausted it melts on my burning face, to run with the winds till they try hard enough to catch me. Sometimes, I want to behold the white picturesque in my vision and seal my eyes forever, to let the winter gush infuse in me the crimson that conceals itself from the fading world. Sometimes, I want to breathe in the callous cold till it freezes me from the inside, sometimes I want the winter to be all mine.<br />
<br />
Image - Pinterest </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0Nottingham, UK52.954783199999987 -1.158108599999991452.801723699999989 -1.4808320999999913 53.107842699999985 -0.83538509999999144tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-59747854763281000732016-08-03T07:08:00.001-07:002016-08-03T07:08:50.081-07:00Self Fulfillment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFq8eFnoR-PpYAF-3nom5DOw-dHbUnWmRrqdyQPYv0UtIj9w5gw16WvHGUem6mRG_Rd9Tskl1xHEgt9h4S9DbqWcIp1QDsYhOOHsJ7zORVcGCloQ8ysD4LhkrsPxSdZw0ehIGSWwi8bDU/s1600/la3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFq8eFnoR-PpYAF-3nom5DOw-dHbUnWmRrqdyQPYv0UtIj9w5gw16WvHGUem6mRG_Rd9Tskl1xHEgt9h4S9DbqWcIp1QDsYhOOHsJ7zORVcGCloQ8ysD4LhkrsPxSdZw0ehIGSWwi8bDU/s320/la3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 25.5px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
And sometimes there is such sovereignty in love that even if you keep your gifts of affection between your pages of compassion, it won't rot. It will grow as did your love for her and poetry , both making you dive in the mockery of self and yet the sweet pleasures of endearment are enough to guide you to self fulfillment. </div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 25.5px;">
image - Pinterest </div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-33817615397109117172016-07-28T08:03:00.001-07:002016-07-28T08:03:42.445-07:00THE BOOK GIRL <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLumEyhtd_KrQhA4dBnaY6O4ww0ZKu5ha75jn-mmkl8xzywKgwt5VkPiwmV05DokmFUWJ13EsGQJdtFgaPbqvbau80IRn2f1ofaYuDcVWQwWsQFFYK2KsoRK6yl1xJwQ8L1nCd-FLOA8/s1600/vos2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqLumEyhtd_KrQhA4dBnaY6O4ww0ZKu5ha75jn-mmkl8xzywKgwt5VkPiwmV05DokmFUWJ13EsGQJdtFgaPbqvbau80IRn2f1ofaYuDcVWQwWsQFFYK2KsoRK6yl1xJwQ8L1nCd-FLOA8/s320/vos2.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
" He kissed her, love it was to the fullest of his passion". She delicately rubbed the last pages of her favorite book with her puny fingers. Holding the book close to her bosom with a smile, she bestowed her emotions behind them. Lying in her cozy bed, she expiated the sagacity of the text, as passionately as the character of the book kissed his woman.</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
She was lusty of books but never of the life detailed. She held her cup, dry insipid coffee pertai<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">ning to it and traveled through stories captive behind her debilitated eyes. Stories she'd been a part of, characters she'd played and imaginations she'd suffered at the hands of those mesmerizing books. The very rusty aroma of the text indulged with the fragrance of the dead insipid coffee could let her apprehend the world, destitute. Compositions helped her conceal the dreaded realities.</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Was it fiction ? It was, but not for the one who created them. Alas! not for the book girl.</div>
</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-62798401365937423872016-07-28T02:54:00.002-07:002016-07-28T02:55:47.480-07:00Wagging Tongues <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tKMiFceem3X2M2r9j9LMUjlBpBjTxhLHGPXQV8K-cRckB6uITENtlOOtOX9EOmhE2gNZtsdegopb70QFFMB1qDrjFrMaKSnEgdAGTOG_0Bdd4BpQ6_NrB-M2A1FISLHTSNMKRaz1hww/s1600/vos2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6tKMiFceem3X2M2r9j9LMUjlBpBjTxhLHGPXQV8K-cRckB6uITENtlOOtOX9EOmhE2gNZtsdegopb70QFFMB1qDrjFrMaKSnEgdAGTOG_0Bdd4BpQ6_NrB-M2A1FISLHTSNMKRaz1hww/s320/vos2.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>I have read certain male poets comparing a woman's tongue to a dog's wagging tail but how ironic it is that they fear being compared to the anonymous themselves. Such is the art for the wagging tongues of certain poets, Alas! not poetic enough. </i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Image - Pinterest </i></div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-32572201337703652842016-07-27T01:01:00.004-07:002016-07-27T01:01:45.937-07:00PARTS <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZM-9fiQLYJbUw4ZWpUBvuZ-3PIHY4s8Smitgpglua0VsbM4k6VMRlf0fh6V6rKuTSj690eedM-gQYi2Sr44qzysj-uxuAJhOFu3XVJptzTHkOsCIeRQfDY5RR30oOBWZZJZVs60FTEeo/s1600/vos2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZM-9fiQLYJbUw4ZWpUBvuZ-3PIHY4s8Smitgpglua0VsbM4k6VMRlf0fh6V6rKuTSj690eedM-gQYi2Sr44qzysj-uxuAJhOFu3XVJptzTHkOsCIeRQfDY5RR30oOBWZZJZVs60FTEeo/s320/vos2.jpg" width="248" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
He painted me in jists but I have parts of me, parts of me that are left undiscovered, untouched by the gush of winds. Abandoned in corners of the world, they speak of who I am. Half, un-imagined he left me tattered without them. So I crawl and curl in my own vicinity, I hide my presence for absence left unaccustomed. I conceal the pieces he painted to find the pieces from a writer's mercy. I have parts of me, unanswered. Who made me? Who found me not? Who to blame? Who to find? </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
IMAGE- PINTEREST </div>
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-88414980442642455962016-07-26T12:57:00.001-07:002016-07-26T12:57:26.526-07:00AND MAYBE <i>And maybe I wasn't worth a thousand mistakes that you made but I was nonetheless a little more human than you. And while you were busy being the poet, I fell off the cliff each day to wake the lover in you, yet you travelled emotions through words but never through my heart. </i><div><i>I turned into the woman who then travelled her own paths. </i></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-77393876876133677392015-05-25T08:20:00.001-07:002015-05-25T08:20:21.276-07:00Unfaithful Waves <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Slowly yet violently<br />
they came and abstracted our mere existence.<br />
Those little hasty steps of togetherness,<br />
all gone in a flush.<br />
They demanded our origin<br />
Ah !<br />
We were born in those very unfaithful waves.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySqQgKKTFSnWXwpgBUwbD2L7gy_QBAw1-i3OCd8UfruF5c4IBrVb5dxSZjWWOlC8EO2Ner-L9IUtPhgKPSkPMjzkHC-LslpyyNioSkpz5bHdaLl7QraZuMHsZWTWST6xgPQR6s_l28pg/s1600/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhySqQgKKTFSnWXwpgBUwbD2L7gy_QBAw1-i3OCd8UfruF5c4IBrVb5dxSZjWWOlC8EO2Ner-L9IUtPhgKPSkPMjzkHC-LslpyyNioSkpz5bHdaLl7QraZuMHsZWTWST6xgPQR6s_l28pg/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-33547766017335636042015-02-24T06:32:00.002-08:002015-02-24T06:32:32.087-08:00Masculinity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Looking in the mirror I saw my vehemence against myself surpass. My misogyny overpowered me. Clenched hands, sweat through my sideburns were a result of my physical stretch. ,My eyes red, angered not guilty, withered not anxious, They gave me a view of myself- my gaunt self. The sense of power and dominance devoid me of my sanity. Her shrieks were my victory, her cries were my laughs, her weaknesses were my demons- Oh! my demons were my death. Shaky, sweaty, red, vulnerable, weak, shivering, lost- that day I saw my real masculinity.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsmxDkegfUBWizfo7_skk__Z66tFkrN9e6960ydS13rLP4177oVIeMoHsX93RGCgKLWfX6T1322jTDwS80f6gpEmgWj-K4IJYscdDX12BkJKWewsdWfkJg4o3XTYwLQLSWVJkF-00h50/s1600/man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivsmxDkegfUBWizfo7_skk__Z66tFkrN9e6960ydS13rLP4177oVIeMoHsX93RGCgKLWfX6T1322jTDwS80f6gpEmgWj-K4IJYscdDX12BkJKWewsdWfkJg4o3XTYwLQLSWVJkF-00h50/s1600/man.jpg" height="299" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-15024309041187071382015-02-18T07:39:00.002-08:002015-02-18T07:39:44.756-08:00Courage is the act of the lovers<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I could feel it, the spaces between our twined fingers- A similar kind of void in my heart. A series of neglected emotions passed through it, making me shudder at the very thought of acknowledging them. My passions knew no bounds, his never really existed. A traumatic convenience emerged in the presence of our dislocated feelings. In scenarios I imagined myself sulkily, my love for him was braver than his ignorance of the same. We were together but the gaps were yet to be filled. Courage is the act of the lovers we hadn't yet squandered.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrc70txeZCngzfbaQLeoeZYmI-0R0lSqTvZfmrvTrNpm00jJwRCDrfXFpVsrM6lZI04diyR6OUKnGHB3OGi9KK5mgjOicHZHeFsPRWFRp7QwMn2PPZvKc8F_hgr-aLJdGEgtLORQtlDyY/s1600/lovers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrc70txeZCngzfbaQLeoeZYmI-0R0lSqTvZfmrvTrNpm00jJwRCDrfXFpVsrM6lZI04diyR6OUKnGHB3OGi9KK5mgjOicHZHeFsPRWFRp7QwMn2PPZvKc8F_hgr-aLJdGEgtLORQtlDyY/s1600/lovers.jpg" height="266" width="320" /></a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-30148890992733192632015-02-08T10:07:00.001-08:002015-02-08T10:07:52.742-08:00Oh february !<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
You instill in me those feelings, those feelings of blending chasms. A sensuous trip- my heart leaps. You enfeeble my sanity with your white snowy picturesque- the gutta of my warm blood would never want to spoil but it rushes through my veins in tumultuous agitation, desperate to stain. Your serenity I wants to claim, your mist cold face I want to hold- proclaim and gain. Your ironical calmness I so desire, it withholds my passions by blemishing my vision. Oh february ! she precedes you in beauty.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlXx7sMoaYDEMzxqwcyP9JPZvrQecQHMRl9t7nbt7gzR8hOtkzcQOncBiy_cDzWBCS1978QDjLKIuB8IPlpbOZl-MfRTurvNUgbrqsrQ-a0qZLYnqBLMoVyX1EqdV5mVCsr-1q226L3U/s1600/oh+february+!.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRlXx7sMoaYDEMzxqwcyP9JPZvrQecQHMRl9t7nbt7gzR8hOtkzcQOncBiy_cDzWBCS1978QDjLKIuB8IPlpbOZl-MfRTurvNUgbrqsrQ-a0qZLYnqBLMoVyX1EqdV5mVCsr-1q226L3U/s1600/oh+february+!.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-29618130268513360612015-01-26T10:36:00.001-08:002015-01-26T10:36:04.808-08:00Forbidness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Night won't forbid insomnia, It's like an obscure love.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUVs3kIW918l5BKkB4YMG9wCZz2Y8DiOzhVTAtIzOpkIB8j19l7gNurktA-TvSvuDZorpwFqVU4ZRf_6AxfJ9akgTyGV6hokGCSwmYdK3j0HppXLwYzCu5YE3G_yPL8NJD4rICpth0oS4/s1600/insomnia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUVs3kIW918l5BKkB4YMG9wCZz2Y8DiOzhVTAtIzOpkIB8j19l7gNurktA-TvSvuDZorpwFqVU4ZRf_6AxfJ9akgTyGV6hokGCSwmYdK3j0HppXLwYzCu5YE3G_yPL8NJD4rICpth0oS4/s1600/insomnia.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-6502310373124536102015-01-25T11:00:00.001-08:002015-01-25T11:00:16.437-08:00A felo-de-se<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I looked through it, patiently,dreaded and fancied the world outside. A world so near yet obscure,I wanted to look beyond,surpass all abundance and feel exhausted. The fullness inside was choking me and keeping me from dearth. The chilly wind often clownishly slapped my face giving me an insight of the world I loathed. It warned me yet lured me to flow with it,experience the exasperation she did. And so I decided to acknowledge it, hold its hand and follow it, relieve myself of copiousness and gain a little solidity.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0aO6ruYa8MlnXL5jRZrftDua6aWZWY5xVQOTpgnbDbaZp__4lKe6u54pusBSAwfl8VQswWUedAJwMdXSV3Lxla3bOPFogQH7jVjoSPXjLtIntdujYkhmhyK-JWQiRGtC3PQMMDsiQX18/s1600/solidity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0aO6ruYa8MlnXL5jRZrftDua6aWZWY5xVQOTpgnbDbaZp__4lKe6u54pusBSAwfl8VQswWUedAJwMdXSV3Lxla3bOPFogQH7jVjoSPXjLtIntdujYkhmhyK-JWQiRGtC3PQMMDsiQX18/s1600/solidity.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-14258444833202837452015-01-17T11:04:00.003-08:002015-01-17T11:04:48.299-08:00INSATIABLE<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">You have me, you know that. Every inch of my skin, my compliant soul you so wholly possess. You unnerve me every time, looking at me with eyes so intent, zealous for more occupancy. Detention maybe ? Unaware of my fatiguing fidelity. Filling my melancholy nights you make me wonder why can't I ever have enough of you and then those eyes smirk at me, teasing me in your cathartic presence</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">. The thought itself is so gratifying signalling chills down my spine and making my heart race like some mad horse and oh ! Those heavy greedy breaths. Those robust breaths in your presence that make you own me and you smile wicked for you are aware of your charm. My dreams-they have you tall and needy, I like you needy. As far as I am concerned my indigence for you is insatiable.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5616454039919035097.post-68409722872040908622014-12-22T09:16:00.001-08:002014-12-22T09:16:37.144-08:00The dark hour <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The girl who just grew up<br />
they held her hand,<br />
held her hand in scandal.<br />
Nobody said a word<br />
Shh...in this dark hour.<br />
<br />
She laughed and smiled and dandled in joy<br />
while his hands impelled,<br />
her frown, Oh! the frown of the 5 year old.<br />
Alas! the father never stopped<br />
Shh...in this dark hour.<br />
<br />
He threw the glass in inflame,<br />
pulled her in with a warrant.<br />
Smelling of stench revenge<br />
he ravished his own woman<br />
Shh...in this dark hour.<br />
<br />
Then came the old woman,<br />
her life sated<br />
but the young blood lascivious,<br />
not leaving no cow, no woman, no new, no old<br />
Shh...in this dark hour.<br />
<br />
And in this hour<br />
no woman was left,<br />
nor untouched neither unattended.<br />
In this dark hour<br />
black seemed the only light.<br />
<br /></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11086117880267496974noreply@blogger.com0