Random thoughts

Nowadays people are so cold..

Maybe there’s something that has made them the way they are..

Something has happened and all the balminess of their heart has gone..

Sometimes I wonder, what it could be..

A torned heart?

A shattered trust?

A splintered soul?

Maybe they aren’t that hard,

And it’s just a guard.

A mask that hides their vulnerable side..and helps them in pretending that they are careless and cold hearted..just like everybody else..

And behind that mask..there is someone who is as soft as water, as warm as morning sunshine..

As the beautiful quote says..

People only go cold because it hurts so much to get burnt.

© Dreamer

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Life As A Poet ~ A Poem By Walt Page, The Tennessee Poet

Walt's Writings

A poet’s life is all about words
Searching for inspiration
Crafting images to create a sense of being
A poet spends a great amount of time
Reading poetry
Submitting poetry to journals
Dealing with the pain of rejection
And the thrill of acceptance
Watching the sunset
Sleepless nights
Waiting for the sunrise
Entering contests
Trying new poetic forms
Talking with other poets
Writing notes
Commenting on other poetry
A poet’s life is like no other
And I wouldn’t want it
Any other way

~The Tennessee Poet~
©Walt Page 2019 All Rights Reserved

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Butterflies’ Flight

The Girl from Mizo Hills

Two butterflies in spring
Chasing each other among the trees
Gaily flying over the season’s blooms;

Somehow they remind me of you
And how I had implored to wait
For me to pray about us.

What is it about us and butterflies?
Perhaps it’s the wings of flight;
And how you tried to stay around

But I let you fly away
To another bountiful season
Far from our never ending spring.

And the endlessness of the sky
Brings our flight to cross;
With each, I am ever grateful

I know your season is filled
With endless summer roses
And sweet smelling fruits

But you see me too,
My wings unclipped and still
Chasing after each new bloom;

My eyes sparkle with more flight
My heart beats in thousand melodies
And my wings more powerful than ever.

We both know I was right
And happiness has been becoming
Where wings of…

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Manas Shome Writes

The woman sings a lullaby for her child in the lap. She is a mother.

She scolds the kid while it stones a dog. She is a mother.

She plays with the kid while running a fever. She is a mother.

She covers the blood of her daughter’s first period. She is a mother.

She thrashes her son while he teases the girl next door. She is a mother.

She hands him over to the police as the girl cries for help. She is a mother.

She gives herself to the soldiers as they grab her daughter. She is a mother.

She kills the man who did not still listen. She is a mother.

And the hen dares the butcher’s blade as his hands reaches its chicks. She is a mother.

The tigress growls as her cubs fall into the hunter’s rope. She is a mother.

The duck pecks the…

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The 50 year old poet

Place me in a capsule

and send me back in time,

to when I wasn’t afraid to

venture out in the daytime.

When the days felt like weeks

and weeks were like years

and I was still unacquainted

with all my fears.

Outside in the sunshine

with my body tanned,

the future in my head

already planned.

Endless possibilities

stretched out in front of me,

I thought I could be

whatever I wanted to be.

But then life took notice

of my silly dreams,

smiled to himself,

then smashed them

to smithereens.

Leaving me to pick up

what pieces that I could

to accompany me on

my journey into adulthood.

grayscale photo of woman sitting on wooden planks while resting her head on hands Photo by Lucas Pezeta on

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Poem – One Morning


I like this morning.
It seemingly proves
that I am still here.
Outside my window,
some fifty feet down
our sloping front yard,
is a tree that has been
snapped in half by a storm.
It has no branches and no leaves,
standing naked, producing no defense.
This tree is beautiful in all the
morning light I have ever seen it,
as it has seen them with me.
We, the tree and I, intertwined
within the fellowship of time
are reminded of a man from the
past who needs constant evidence
of existence; who am I to know
I am me with here and now
if only for liking one morning.

-M. Taggart

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A Writer's Soul

What does it mean…?
That you have such a hold on me,
That I can trace remnants of you in everything,
The way I laugh, the way I close my eyes when I first look up at the moon,
Or the way I see your reflection in all the windows I pass,
I wonder,
What it means…
Better off all alone, I know,
But you’re here now,
So keep me company a little while longer,
You fall back into me, a grip too tight,
I can’t breathe,
I can’t keep drowning on…with you,
What does it mean…
There you are again,
In the reflection of the water,
I’m reaching for you, I swear!
But, you slip away every time,
Dive deeper,
I wonder what it means as I fall further and further,
I swear I feel you,
So tight, I can’t…breath…
Such a strong hold on me…
Who do you…

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Under cover

Postcard from life lately

Wide open spaces.

A void.


I love to spend my evenings brain in peace, wrapped in my blanket,
a glorious expression of a magician of sorts that woven it with colours of dreams.
I love watching the stars coming out, cucooing from their hiden spots.
I love skimming waves of rainbows and wind with my fingers.
I love to touch the air, feel the breeze and wind caress.
Under my blanket cover I find a sort of sunshine in the darkness.
Protected by it I can safely drift off to my mother’s voice and my father’s lullaby.


All posts and short stories on this blog are the works of and @postcardfromlifelately. Unauthorised use and/or duplication of this material without the express and written permission of the author is strictly not allowed. You may use excerpts and links or reblogs of this material provided that complete and clear credit…

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