The chilly embrace of the night coupled with your receding footsteps made me a refugee in my own love story. #refugee #ChillyEmbrace #RecedingFootsteps #YoPoWriMo #yqbaba

#Refugee #ChillyEmbrace #RecedingFootsteps #yopowrimo #yqbaba

The chilly embrace
of the night
coupled with
your receding footsteps
made me a refugee
in my own love story. #refugee #ChillyEmbrace #RecedingFootsteps #YoPoWriMo #yqbaba

Meera Ali

hobbles around the home with twisted conflicts and shuffled baby steps innocence, peeping through the keyholes with a blind eye, watching the dwindling driblets of perception falling down from my cheeks (Read Caption) My window of thoughts hobbles around the home with twisted conflicts and shuffled baby steps innocence, peeping through the keyholes with a

My window of thoughts hobbles around the home with twisted conflicts and shuffled baby steps innocence, peeping through the keyholes with a

hobbles around the home
with twisted conflicts
and shuffled baby steps innocence,
peeping through the keyholes
with a blind eye, watching
the dwindling driblets of perception
falling down from my cheeks

(Read Caption)

My window of thoughts
hobbles around the home
with twisted conflicts
and shuffled baby steps innocence,
peeping through the keyholes
with a

Meera Ali

You sat there for a while until I switch on the lights. I arranged the cluttered books into a tryst of arrangement, stroking them gently to sleep while they hushed in silences, talking about the precedented unfinished poem of poet. (Read caption) Sometimes it's ok to not have long chats. I remember once we had this small chat with silence enveloping our words, it was the longest chat

Sometimes it's ok to not have long chats. I remember once we had this small chat with silence enveloping our words, it was the longest chat

You sat there for a while until I switch on the lights. I arranged the cluttered books into a tryst of arrangement, stroking them gently to sleep while they hushed in silences, talking about the precedented unfinished poem of poet.

(Read caption) Sometimes it's ok to not have long chats. I remember once we had this small chat with silence enveloping our words, it was the longest chat

Sanjana Kumar

And what else is my heart if not the same old shrapnel city? //caption// Shrapnel City -Sanjana Kumar We collect smoke from the receding four wheeler and trap it in a jar, for when there is abundance of fresh

Shrapnel City -Sanjana Kumar We collect smoke from the receding four wheeler and trap it in a jar, for when there is abundance of fresh

And what
else is my heart if not
the same old
shrapnel city?

//caption// Shrapnel City
-Sanjana Kumar

We collect smoke
from the receding four wheeler and trap it in a jar,

for when there is abundance
of fresh

Sanjana Kumar

More ignored than the spring palash, lying idle and detached next to or on the puddle from sudden rain spells in receding winter. //caption// Purple Jasmine -Sanjana Kumar They colour the white jasmine garlands for sale, in those flower shops. They make blue, purple, yellow an

Purple Jasmine -Sanjana Kumar They colour the white jasmine garlands for sale, in those flower shops. They make blue, purple, yellow an

More ignored
than the spring palash,
lying idle and detached
next to or on the puddle from
sudden rain spells
in receding winter.

//caption// Purple Jasmine
-Sanjana Kumar

They colour the white
jasmine garlands for sale,
in those flower shops.
They make blue, purple,
yellow an

Sai Manohar

Maybe the journey of the drop to the ocean is romanticised. It's just an endless cycle. Like life and death. What's its true freedom? Perhaps, to dissolve in the blossom of a seed into an autumn leaf.. And then back to Nothing? Yes. From nowhere to nothing. #CuSP (1) Maybe the heart has found a new route to its shore. Or maybe the shore keeps receding. There's no worry. As long as the river f

#Cusp (1) Maybe the heart has found a new route to its shore. Or maybe the shore keeps receding. There's no worry. As long as the river f

Maybe the journey of the drop to the ocean is romanticised. It's just an endless cycle. Like life and death. What's its true freedom? Perhaps, to dissolve in the blossom of a seed into an autumn leaf..

And then back to Nothing?

Yes. From nowhere to nothing.
#CuSP (1)

Maybe the heart has found a new route to its shore. Or maybe the shore keeps receding.

There's no worry. As long as the river f

Diwa

I saw endless, brutal strife where old friends Turned into sudden, callous foes And every passage was sealed up Against these former comrades, posthaste. Then, as the enemies tried to decimate Our hurriedly-constructed blockages, A violent fight between two brothers Came to a startling boil. Blood, splattered blood, dripped Without mercy down the unforgiving floor While enemies, inveigling to paralyze us, Were duly ignored. I could hear the anguished plea of a sibling-- Pleading for a bit of compassion, Yelling for a tendril of breath-- His bleeding head, mangled and grubby. I let my eyes roam all over the room-- Searching for a glimmer of receding hope; Then, I realized that my father Was in deep, oblivious slumber While a show of ruthless destruction Continued to take place; And so, I shouted and I implored-- In a tortured voice, I beseeched, "Father! Father, please help us! Father, please!" I heard myself screaming for his succor As the vicious chaos slowly encroached And vanquished each terrorized soul. Then, I grabbed my rosary and started to pray-- Tears garbling my words, clogging up my throat. "Nightmare" I saw endless, brutal strife where old friends Turned into sudden, callous foes And every passage was sealed up Against these

"Nightmare" I saw endless, brutal strife where old friends Turned into sudden, callous foes And every passage was sealed up Against these

I saw endless, brutal strife where old friends
Turned into sudden, callous foes
And every passage was sealed up
Against these former comrades, posthaste.
Then, as the enemies tried to decimate
Our hurriedly-constructed blockages,
A violent fight between two brothers
Came to a startling boil.
Blood, splattered blood, dripped
Without mercy down the unforgiving floor
While enemies, inveigling to paralyze us,
Were duly ignored.
I could hear the anguished plea of a sibling--
Pleading for a bit of compassion,
Yelling for a tendril of breath--
His bleeding head, mangled and grubby.
I let my eyes roam all over the room--
Searching for a glimmer of receding hope;
Then, I realized that my father
Was in deep, oblivious slumber
While a show of ruthless destruction
Continued to take place;
And so, I shouted and I implored--
In a tortured voice, I beseeched,
"Father! Father, please help us! Father, please!"
I heard myself screaming for his succor
As the vicious chaos slowly encroached
And vanquished each terrorized soul.
Then, I grabbed my rosary and started to pray--
Tears garbling my words, clogging up my throat. "Nightmare"

I saw endless, brutal strife where old friends
Turned into sudden, callous foes
And every passage was sealed up
Against these

Sanjana Kumar

I swear, had I been the night itself, I would have placed my hand in yours that day, love. These shining stars would have been there to guide us through, to the sparkling sun lit day. //caption// I never asked for your address, but somehow your voice and the sound of my name being uttered through your voice, still lingers in this nigh

I never asked for your address, but somehow your voice and the sound of my name being uttered through your voice, still lingers in this nigh

I swear, had I been the night itself, I would have placed my hand in yours that day, love.
These shining stars would have been there to guide us through, to the sparkling sun lit day.

//caption//
I never asked for your address, but somehow your voice and the sound of my name being uttered through your voice, still lingers in this nigh

Sanjana Kumar

Deformed faces, staring at you, staring through their anxious breaths filling their hollow chests and you stare back at them equally defiant, shamelessly so. Wordless and silent, those eyes talk to you and what do you do? //full poem in caption// Call it one last wish, call it the burning slits through which the truth talks to your bared soul. Call it the evening prayer, call it the

Call it one last wish, call it the burning slits through which the truth talks to your bared soul. Call it the evening prayer, call it the

Deformed faces, staring
at you, staring through
their anxious breaths filling
their hollow chests and
you stare back at them equally
defiant, shamelessly so.
Wordless and silent, those
eyes talk to you and
what do you do?

//full poem in caption//
Call it one last wish, call it the burning slits through which the truth talks to your bared soul.
Call it the evening prayer, call it the

Sanjana Kumar

What if I stopped using metaphors? //read full poem in caption// We use monochrome filters for the ruins we capture through the camera lenses. As if, the laughter that echoes off its walls and the tears t

We use monochrome filters for the ruins we capture through the camera lenses. As if, the laughter that echoes off its walls and the tears t

What if I stopped using metaphors?

//read full poem in caption// We use monochrome filters for the ruins we capture through the camera lenses.
As if, the laughter that echoes off its walls and the tears t

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