The Dance

aesthetic | cute, tumblr и aesthetic

Prompt- Dramatic Monologue

You!
The face of singular lotus
come, let’s evolve
someplace together
with our final dance
Take my hands
interlock it with yours

A strand of light
A strand of gleam
Your face
a yarn of mother’s touch
a cupboard full of old photo albums.

Your body is a shell
a shire of tulips
You have a mind of sunrise.

Look, do not overthink
for you must destroy this marble hour.
Hop!
Do not stare and evolve with me
before you learn to pronounce L O V E.

After all, Queer is this ecstasy!

Releasing this 2020- Crimson Skins

I am more than thrilled to announce that my second collection of poems will be soon released this year. “Crimson Skins” deals with life journey, loss, isolation, etc. I have stayed honest throughout my poems and this took almost all of my energy. If you are fond of my writing style I urge you to keep your eyes wide open for it. This book is an outcome of my 1.5 years of sweat, tears, and ink.

I hope you all stay excited as I publish this book with Indi(e) Blue Publishing. This amazing book cover has been designed by my talented friend and artist Henna Johansdotter.

 

Thank you for always reading and supporting me.

Devika

Raindrops

thesensualdominant“Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks....

we slumber through days
of moist observations
of things unspoken of.
An organ. A transparency..
there are things beyond our two nutty eye
to cling a mouth full of love,

Raindrops
that cascade through my fragile shoulders
through my heavy white bosom

that
speaks of you
speaks of sin
speaks of white emptiness
raindrops sweet and soft
unravels a story of mother’s womb.
so much beyond and so much less.

What do I ask for now?
peace or lust from you?
A landscape. A delusion.
I write this to pleat my unevenness
to fool you into believing
about our eloping mad love.


Hi, Hope you all are doing well. Let me know how did you enjoy my this poem in the comments below.


Imaginations

For i see a tree behind a house made of clouds
a slow whisper entrapped beneath the soil
that never moves an inch
a state of wellness only getting harrowed
we live
like a static voice losing the soft cotton-like warmth
each day where the bells pause to chime.
We come across rooms full of stars and nights
and things even harsher
Imaginations of people breaking apart
or true maybe

The slice of pain is where it must have all begun
numb and electric
Everything seems on fire
where it ends
where it begins
no one knows.

Thins behind the valley seem plain
with ordinary roses
ordinary people
ordinary chirpings and shadow.

hallucinations or reality?

Those were the days of love.


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My newsletter- Tiny Letter

Dear all,

Thank you for always reading my work on WordPress. My love for you all will always be huge. Though it would mean a lot if you can subscribe to my tiny letter newsletter. I would be sharing some beautifully curated poetry of some great poets/ articles/ artworks and it shall also have insights into my work at your mailbox.

You won’t be disappointed.

You just have to subscribe to the mailbox and you can enjoy different poetries while sipping on your favourite tea and maybe anytime you wish to read. I still will be hanging onto my this platform along with my Instagram, twitter handle.

https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul

thanks.

On Dreams

L o r e e e h h

Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.

Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.

You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.

                       It does not matter
                           anymore
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.

There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.

It does not matter.

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A blank slate

Ethereal vintage satin and lace princess dress | archiverie

I do not need a bowl of salvation
for i see people dying each day
the walls of fragile mind
separating recklessly.

Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming
as it was never a state of peace.
As I write this poetry
I weep
I weep thinking of my existence
of the silences that creates a hue of colourless Sun.

I sink
thinking about the old moments
where conversations were simple
conversations made of pink wool
of memories and hands.

These days i imagine a single strand of grass
infused into the tunnel of my thin skin
to sit and spread a smell that wipes
things so small
things full of cold elements.

The body is driven mad
by the sight of people now
failing to comprehend the existence of things so bright.

I have a body now
that refuses to walk
a body so cold
a lifeless abstract piece of art.

(written after all that is happening around the world. I feel terrible.)

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A prayer to hope

Bijay Parida - Krishna Comes to Persuade Radha (Geru) @ The ...

Cities left like empty vases,
soundless minds,
a spot once full
looks ghastly.

Run, run, run
to the places unknown
hiding beneath the carcass of nature,

Sit, observe and run
to the places that are quiet now.

Learn from the two-fold mystery of God,
they do it like a yard spinning.
Do not fear,
this pool is a rubber band,
the more you stretch, the more it shall get you.

Clench the fist of the thing you see next now,
yes, a rope,
a pill,
a prayer,
but do not stop.
you have to live like a sussurous hymn.


Wrote after the super cyclone- Amphan.

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How bad is my poetry?

I do not write today to hold the things leaking
or to slip across the rooms with fever.
No.
I do not write to mourn the sunburn of humankind,
the lips are already pale, i do not wish to write another metaphor too.
Things that have way, will escape anyhow
and so is my today’s poetry.
It has no sense maybe,
no remorse floating
but i must assure you, I do not write to hold your breath even.

I announce I am rather happy
but then
you might feel my imagery too strong
for I use things too harshly
for i use things in a weird Ethiopian mimic

But the mind does not halt
it will shout
and then you will have
some iterations again, too many fancy laces spread.
Your mind will be inundated with countless meanings of it
and then
you will turn everything to me
for i am the one producing,
collapsing
exhilarating
dying
in ways only unknown here
It is Summer here
the sun will come up and soak in my leaflets
the scribbled ink
the detached sonnets from a stranger.

Everything will die
and yet I might not speak of it
for my words are too fancy for you.

The face of a woman

Model Lexi Boling is styled by Carolyn Murphy in pure femininity for 'Blithe Spirit'. Photographer Sebastian Sabal-Bruce is behind the lens for Porter Magazine #26 Summer 2018./ Hair by Edward Lampley; makeup by Allie Smith.

I imagine the day like a face of a woman,
the mornings so much defined
with exposures and brightness,
polaroids of crimson sky
and the heaviness comes like her mind,
i can paint this lady on my canvas,

yawns in the afternoons,
doping shadows
watching the food vividly left in the kitchen
she knows nobody
but a raisin stuck to her mouth

The flower would lust water by evening
and the lady would nurture it,
each color so distinct,
each seed – a subservience
each leaf unfolding unique stories

by night, light fades away
into a shade of something darker
of gentle strokes disappearing
flooding her mouth, her memories with aesthetics.

The heaviness puts her arm into a state of nostalgia
a perfect blend of papers & ink.
But then we know how things end
with a flustered love for trees,
half filled glass of all things love.z


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