Best lockdownpoemsforA Shayari, Status, Quotes, Stories

Sanjana Kumar

+ Follow

Report AbuseCopy Text

Sometimes the love is harsh, it's the sun's love. But I'd rather wave my arms a little more mellow, look the giver in the eye, than to droop my eyes down lower to the ground. Sweet sweet mother earth, she holds me and yet I must pay my homage to the colour I see on my skin. /caption/ Prompt by APM. From a sunflower to a rainbow. The dawn washes over me, the youth of the day leaves its sweet spell spilt all on my face, spiraling into my core, through to my very roots. Sometimes the love is harsh, it's the sun's love. But I'd rather wave my arms a little more mellow, look the giver in the eye, than to droop my eyes down lower to the ground. Sweet sweet mother earth, she holds me and yet I must pay my homage to the colour I see on my skin. I tell you all of this because

Sometimes the love is harsh, it's the sun's love. But I'd rather wave my arms a little more mellow, look the giver in the eye, than to droop my eyes down lower to the ground. Sweet sweet mother earth, she holds me and yet I must pay my homage to the colour I see on my skin. /caption/ Prompt by APM. From a sunflower to a rainbow. The dawn washes over me, the youth of the day leaves its sweet spell spilt all on my face, spiraling into my core, through to my very roots. Sometimes the love is harsh, it's the sun's love. But I'd rather wave my arms a little more mellow, look the giver in the eye, than to droop my eyes down lower to the ground. Sweet sweet mother earth, she holds me and yet I must pay my homage to the colour I see on my skin. I tell you all of this because

Sanjana Kumar

+ Follow

Report AbuseCopy Text

In a hidden corner of the universe, the sound of a snail moving and moving away is still distinct, as if time really did it the honour of standing still and the dew drop decided to lie down gentler than usual, on the big leaf you caress. /caption/ A prompt by Airplane Poetry Movement Gentle. In a hidden corner of the universe, the sound of a snail moving and moving away is still distinct, as if time really did it the honour of standing still and the dew drop decided to lie down gentler than usual, on the big leaf you caress. Today, in this space where a snowflake today, was a raindrop yesterday and may be a sand dune in itself tomorrow, I must confess to you, you make me believe in all the intricacies romance has to offer. In all the

In a hidden corner of the universe, the sound of a snail moving and moving away is still distinct, as if time really did it the honour of standing still and the dew drop decided to lie down gentler than usual, on the big leaf you caress. /caption/ A prompt by Airplane Poetry Movement Gentle. In a hidden corner of the universe, the sound of a snail moving and moving away is still distinct, as if time really did it the honour of standing still and the dew drop decided to lie down gentler than usual, on the big leaf you caress. Today, in this space where a snowflake today, was a raindrop yesterday and may be a sand dune in itself tomorrow, I must confess to you, you make me believe in all the intricacies romance has to offer. In all the

Sanjana Kumar

+ Follow

Report AbuseCopy Text

I don't smile at them often. But sometimes I must. And sometimes I must acknowledge how I envy the dainty cycle of seasons, the back and forth to grey clouds, to red headed migratory birds calling at my window even when the curtains are drawn. //caption// Board Games. Now that my street remains unswept, the dead-crisp-withered-fallen leaves, with all their scorched elegance, sweep over the dying spring with their autumn. Like it's a dim ending of the honey-sun and not a surge of the silver hued gold in the sun-gleam. These are tall and upright trees, with a certain attraction that differs in the eloquence that the crooked will to divert from a known way, has to offer. I don't smile at them often. But sometimes I must. And sometimes I must ackn

I don't smile at them often. But sometimes I must. And sometimes I must acknowledge how I envy the dainty cycle of seasons, the back and forth to grey clouds, to red headed migratory birds calling at my window even when the curtains are drawn. //caption// Board Games. Now that my street remains unswept, the dead-crisp-withered-fallen leaves, with all their scorched elegance, sweep over the dying spring with their autumn. Like it's a dim ending of the honey-sun and not a surge of the silver hued gold in the sun-gleam. These are tall and upright trees, with a certain attraction that differs in the eloquence that the crooked will to divert from a known way, has to offer. I don't smile at them often. But sometimes I must. And sometimes I must ackn

Sanjana Kumar

+ Follow

Report AbuseCopy Text

There's something almost petulant in the crisp summer evenings. The way the sun looks stark orange against a bored sky. //caption// Day 3: Letters to A. There's something almost petulant in the crisp summer evenings. The way the sun looks stark orange against a bored sky. It's something. Time moves really fast, have you noticed? I blinked twice that day and turned my head to watch you taking it all in. By that time, the moon was already up and the sun really low. Time could slow down. And we could take some time off and be right here, still. Maybe, we'll speak better and my hands won't hesitate to feel your face in them,

There's something almost petulant in the crisp summer evenings. The way the sun looks stark orange against a bored sky. //caption// Day 3: Letters to A. There's something almost petulant in the crisp summer evenings. The way the sun looks stark orange against a bored sky. It's something. Time moves really fast, have you noticed? I blinked twice that day and turned my head to watch you taking it all in. By that time, the moon was already up and the sun really low. Time could slow down. And we could take some time off and be right here, still. Maybe, we'll speak better and my hands won't hesitate to feel your face in them,

Sanjana Kumar

+ Follow

Report AbuseCopy Text

You know too much. About me. About the sun and her flowers. About how the spiral of hope makes room for itself amidst the petals. I look up at you. And I can look down at us, at once almost. We're happy. /caption/ Day 2: Letters to A. You know too much. About me. About the sun and her flowers. About how the spiral of hope makes room for itself amidst the petals. I look up at you. And I can look down at us, at once almost. We're happy.

You know too much. About me. About the sun and her flowers. About how the spiral of hope makes room for itself amidst the petals. I look up at you. And I can look down at us, at once almost. We're happy. /caption/ Day 2: Letters to A. You know too much. About me. About the sun and her flowers. About how the spiral of hope makes room for itself amidst the petals. I look up at you. And I can look down at us, at once almost. We're happy.