بھر چکا ہے دل جوابوں سے مرا ہے مزین سچ سرابوں سے مرا اپنے اندر سے میں باہر دیکھتی ہوں زاویہ مخفی حجابوں سے مرا یوں بھی ہو خود سے نکل پاؤں کبھی موم کے شیشے پگھل جائیں سبھی نور ہے پر اس کے نیچے راکھ ہے خاک سے کھرچی ہوئی یہ خاک ہے گو طلاعی ہے چمک اس سوچ کی کھوکھلی ہے، اس کے اندر لاکھ ہے کیمیا گر کی ہتھیلی پر اُگی پھونک کے زد میں یہ اپنی ساکھ ہے کب تلک اپنے تقرب سے بچوں کب تلک اپنے تعین سے جچوں سننے والے ہوں اگر تو بول دوں قفل ان سب طائروں کے کھول دوں ورنہ یہ بھی عین ممکن ہی تو ہے انکہی اک داستاں میں میں رہوں ۔۔۔۔۔ آج کوئی حال پوچھے تو کہوں
ع ۱۳۔۳۔۱۷
My heart is done with answers My truth is with mirages, adorned I look from within myself outside A perspective, on obscurities formed
Maybe I can get out of myself Maybe the walls of wax can melt There is light but underneath are ashes Dust that has been scraped off from dust Though the shine of thought is like gold They're hollow, and only filled with gust Grown on the palm of the alchemist My facade is in the target of a single breath
How long should I avoid facing the mirror How long should I render embellishments To my impressions If there are hearers, I can speak I can unleash the trail of what I seek
Or otherwise this is entirely possible That it all remains hidden In the epic never bared But if one were to ask today, I would have shared.
lines.
Author: Arshia Qasim
0
Date: 06/04/2020
1209378
Three Lines, Four Stanzas
On the paper Newly minted, First time printed
Causal pausation Assessment momentation Review, the second inclination, Then scrap-heaped, In much bad company filed Retained, reserved, preserved, For another go round, Another someday
You look at your hands, Telling them straight, Not good enough, Is not good enough Anymore
Do try, so try, Three lines, four stanzas, Elegies and funerals Don't become you, Go into labor, Write labored And birth free flowingly Knowing, That all knowing glowing, Of a poem child, Product of Good enough
A poem is never the words you read It's what's written between the lines For the words can only plant a seed To grow the emotion a word defines
A feeling trapped inside our hearts Or maybe a place we haven't seen The words are where emotion starts But the meaning is always in-between
For our words can never write a smile But yet you know it's there It has nothing to do with the poet's style Or even the words they share
The words we write have a silent voice That the poets call their muse But interpretation is the readers choice From the words we didn't use
Emotion is always, the in-betweens Our words are only the signs To understand what the poet means You must read between the lines
lines.
Author: Whiskurz
0
Date: 06/04/2020
1208487
Between My Lines
A personable person propogated passion Beneath my heavy heart Alas, cried the caterpillar You are not dead! Though I have spent hours molesting your windowsill Rapeseed! Huckleberry! Gingerbread Pie! All these things and more have I maliciously misunderstood But the lies of the soothsayer are frequently true They are passionate pomegranates from me to you The obelisks of oppression overpower your heartstrings And there's nothing you can do
My villain! My thief! The princess of my misery! The fiery orb and the blasphemous pirates! Staring at your shoulders I see only my reflection Turning on your heel my eyelids sparkle and linger at your doorstep
It's Goliath's head Salmon and bread Those deathly ideas which you purposely said Tic tac guru Just what is he to you? And which of my words have you read?
