#whyiwrite: I write because the pages on paper are the safest place I feel at home. I write because when I’m silenced everywhere else, my pen extends a hand, & my journal lends an ear. I write because when I can’t contain my emotions & my angers gets the best of me, my words remind me why I AM H U M A N. I write because it feels good, I write because it’s challenging, I write because sometimes I don’t always want to. If you were to ask me why I write? I’d tell you, I write because no one ever thought this was a passion of mine, no one ever thought this was a path of mine, I write to silence or better yet bring aloud the voice of my thoughts that are just too loud. I write because I think too often and I just can’t take it. The essence of me, the true essence of me is always within the words that I write. ||. #nationaldayofwriting ✍🏾🌸
October is here, and so is another issue of Incandescent. Look out for a whole new set of content and performative data. We hope you like it! The link is in our bio. 📷: @amrutaaa_k Special Feature by @srish_tyagi A lot of special announcements are coming up so please stay tuned for more ❤️
When the eyes that once shone under the summer sun seem to be drowning in water so black that all light seems to be lost, know that a poet has been born. I have realised that my words and I are both parasites, competing to survive each day. Hoping that by night the body I carry will be theirs to claim. My words can only seize to be if I surrender. The day my words were born I was a young heart drenched in melancholy, in a sorrow so severe that for a minute my heart forgot to beat. And so my first heartbreak became the birth of the poet I carry. I could no longer let the rivers of my honey browns flow, I knew I had to let my fingers bleed instead. The first thing I ever wrote was "When did my heart become so fickle?" And in hunt of the answer I turned the white of the paper to a lost black. I could remember my heart when it was whole - one rhythm pulsing through my entire body and I dancing to it. But now the same heart lives in a thousand broken pieces, each generating its own pulse and my legs trying to figure out which to dance to. But the trance I was so desperately in need of now only existed in a heart far from mine. A heart that still existed as a whole. I was told that sadness feels like silence but to me it felt like too much noise. And I immersed in that sea of sound trying to listen to one.
Being A Girl Trying to let me down won't work, For I will stand up back again. I want to fly and so I will, U can cut my wings but still, I will reach the top of the hill. Unlike others I have grown, 'Love' throughout my life has flown. I was taught many lessons by my mother, While their importance was taught by my father. Never did they discriminate me out, Instead stood just next to me. They made me confident; made me proud, They made me stand out in the crowd, They made me stand and shout against the unjust aloud. Now fierce-firm, strong-bold, I stand, No one can succeed in making me bend. I'm not afraid to be born as a girl, So girls, you too get up, stand up in this crowd, And claim out loud as I resolve that, Being feminine is a proud. Have faith and belief yourself, Don't let anyone put you down, Just ignore them once, they will learn by themselves. And to those who are still on the same verse, Tell them, that the world has reversed, "Being a girl is a blessing not a curse", So shout aloud and tell this to the whole of the universe. "I'm a girl", I boast it around, And let the world know that I'm proud.. Inspiring words by @_aris_fernandes __________________________________ Follow (@rhythmic_rhyme_) for more Like. Share. Comment. Tag. __________________________________ #postoftheday#daily#posts#qouteoftheday#originals#shorttales#soulsayings#unspokenwords#creativewriting#words#quotes#poems#prose#writings#writers#poets#wordporn#positivevibes#writesofig#writersnetwork#writerscommunity#poetsociety#nightwriter#instaposts#instadaily#instauploads#instapoetry#instapoem
Poets and philosophers are such craftsmen in the art of fabricating lies. And it is indeed an art to take the words that represent the hollowness in you and turn them to the colours of the sky at sunset. "Her sadness was a shade of electric blue", they'd say. And you'd know of the girl immersed in an ocean of her own sadness. You'd know of the girl that wore her sorrows on her left sleeve like a badge of betrayal to her own self. To these philosophers of words no mountain is too high to be depicted on the pages of a book named 'And dust we shall become'. The first poet to ever live, i'd like to think was a wanderer, searching for home in all the cities he visited but often finding that once he left, no matter how long he had stayed, the city refused to claim him as its own. So he carried his heart with an image of a city he could call home until it dawned upon him one night that home can't be a place that itself turns to ruin if there is no one to wet its soil but another heart that could be in rhythm to your very own pulse. "Love will find you lost and guide you home", he'd chant everyday until his heart could no longer beat. Centuries after the first poet, I sit in my lawn reminiscing of the cities I once called home which now only seem like a body I once touched. What am I to call home? The city that bore me? Or the city that raised me? Or the city I shall be buried in? So like the poet that lived chanting of this love that guides you, I have surrendered myself to the will of my heart. I will keep on searching for another synchronous rhythm until the song of mine plays its ending note.