#blackpenwritings

[blackpenwritings]

A deep disquiet consumes me so vast, like unarriving autumn trees tremor with unfilled promise yet summer burns them dry;

a barrenness unnoticed empty space between stretching, hollow-like void untouched by trace of green;

filled with rage and bitter anguish for a rain seldom seen soils weep for wish of rapture silver fog rolling in;

I see nothing no more wool of despair pulled over my eyes for the sake of existence, I exist breathing flame into strife;

the river moved into another body poured itself out of my hands hiding, preserving from agony before disquiet turns to sand.

- Tamarind Fall; disquietude.

[diomedrian]

Oh dear, May I hold your hand? May I introduce you to the fruits of my flesh? The thoughts of you have reduced my heart to an orange: peel away the miserable distance that keeps me away from you, hold my naked heart in your bare hands, devour me: all teeth and fingers. On days you aren't around to touch me, your absence holds me, presses against me like bruises on peaches. I keep picking out hours like seeds from the watermelon waiting for you to return. I think if angels were to crack open my head, all they'd find is honey and sunflower and thoughts of you, you, you. I blend in you like salt in sea at the splash of your tongue with mine. You hold me and I shatter into a riot of spring.

Nayha Y. "Ode to Fall." A Collaboration​ With @blackpenwritings

[themumbaiartcollectiveblog-blog]

-Bansini

Like reptiles, their hands wrap themselves around your throat and grip it tight, suffocating every word that had the courage to breathe on your tongue. From the day you were born, you’ve been taught to shut up, not share your opinions, and to listen to the rest of the world screaming in your head. Maybe it’s time to carve your words into knives, and rip their hands apart before you rip your own tongue out in fear of forgetting how to use it at all.

[blackpenwritings]

Subsistence is curse for weeds thriving in extreme harsh cold, numb weather grief bursting at the seams;

lillies move towards the sun- away from semblance of agony leaves fall, souls untethered crushed by sheets of teeth;

plush undergrowth filled with splatter poison climbing up trees till all is coarse scatter lined with grease.

-Tamarind Fall

[blackpenwritings]

Revelation of my identity feels often as a witch-hunt feels often as cemetery, riddled with the dead;

stakes cropping from the ground mistakes abound afire revelations, buried tombstones wilted heart, pyre;

acorns fall to the ground urging, begging, to grow no waters reach these lands no promise left to glow;

they seek and I am found, although, never truly too dead for resurrection too dead to ever breathe.

- Tamarind Fall; long past buried self.

[blackpenwritings]

A world of rampage, an orchestra of chaos.

We live somewhere little voices are buried deep within the earth to mute visions of freedom.

We live somewhere bigotry oppresses unrestricted expression, hatred burns at the bottom of our throats, a yearning to be heard settles deep within our gut, like a little cinder box, struggling to be broken open.

How strange it must be to think that the world we created is the one we're afraid of, where our own ancestors fought for decades to be listened to, only for the next generations to have to watch every word they speak.

How ironic it must be to think, that a promise of Independence turned into a graveyard for perspectives, a whispered murmur of liberation trying to crawl out from beneath headstones commemorating the courage of individual thought.

Normality is an illusion we're taught with an iron rod, a compulsion to adhere to.

Normality is the conformity shoved down our throats until we can't recognize who we are.

Normality is the creation of herds of sheep, their brains torn out to hardwire that being different is wrong, that poison is the only cure to wanting to be who we are.

Until the world of rampage orchestrates a symphony of repression, until compassion becomes a liability, and we're doomed to follow till death engulfs us all.

-Tamarind Fall; Insurgence.

A little late but this blog is pro-BLM.

[blackpenwritings]

We were built as shadows, brick by brick, with the light winding itself inside out of our chests until colour glowed into skin.

The fire shed itself, starving white light into hues, creating fingernails and nuances out of the absence of warmth.

It's probably true, maybe we were built in horizons, every city was an ode to the peace it could never revel in.

The light created us, and we moulded fractals out of it, storing its possibilities in glass lamps and burnt musings.

We crushed the embers until it dripped ink, we learned how to make it grow and it devoured everything.

Fire is just the sun unwinding itself out of wood, and we trapped it within our hands, pulling every inch of its life to harness our own languages.

We were built like shadows, and it breathed life into us. We were built into the light, and we taught it destruction.

-Tamarind Fall.

Based on the quote, 'Fire is just the sun unwinding itself from wood'.

[blackpenwritings]

If being broken is the only way I can be beautiful, I don't want to be beautiful at all.

Tamarind Fall.