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{P.L.O.T.S.} – Creatives Magazine


Creativity Is Humanities Algorithm

🌹✒️Poetrys – Suchismita Ghoshal✒️🌹

Author Suchismita Ghoshal hails from West Bengal, India. At the age of 24, she has been continuously leaving her footprints in the contemporary literary world. She is an widely published author, internationally reputed bilingual poet, spoken word poet, professional writer, content writer, editor and critic, translator (Bengali, English), performing poet, communicator and literary influencer, an independent thinker, humanitarian, change enthusiast and philanthropist. She’s been invited to many international festivals and open mics. Her awards, accolades and achievements not only inspire her more to write but also to influence her through the kindness of her words. Her solo books “Fields of Sonnet”, “Emotions & Tantrums” & “Poetries in Quarantine” are available on Amazon website. She strives towards all the good things and keeps her high-spirits up for miracles to happen.

The World Today

The world today is a mixed chaos

of nothingness,

a massacre of mismanagement

and a dismantled bowl of foul feelings.

Whatever comes first in my mind

with the word ‘World’ is

someone serving me a plate of broken poetry

and I need to fix it as soon as possible.

Poetry tastes bitter now as the nectar of literature

gets sucked by a horde of blasphemous creatures.

A sudden storm or a sudden thunderbolt in an ocean

perfectly goes with the world today

as anything here rises, spreads like an epidemic

and then goes into an immediate ventilation

in a blink of eyes!

A lot of scattered things hovering around,

Nobody even cares to look after it.

Raindrops trickle down, already reaching

to my shoulder , but fails to catch my concerns;

the world today is something like that.

The world today is slowly sinking deep to a sea

but each and every human, busy fixing

their tunes to their rhythms

as the guitar named ‘life’ shouldn’t get its strings broken!

The monsoon comes in a wrong time

and apologizes to the spring as it destroyed its charm.

Don’t tell me nature sweeps brutally seldom

when the people are trampled like ants innumerably

as a decisive result of karma;

it cleans like an angry mother, exhausted

after throwing repetitive calls for home’s cleanliness

towards the sluggish family members.

Unfinished novel, rotting in the dusty bookshelves,

and you have an acute dust allergy,

so you refrain yourself from reading.

And I exactly have a feel

that our world is the exact novel,

betrayed by the dust allergy or maybe by the sufferer!

The lungs of the world got hurt, burnt and dried,

the canines cried out of excessive pain,

we jumped from one channel to another channel

faking “it’s pathetic”, writing poems as a show-off

and then slept relishing a chicken leg piece.

The world itself once kept faith on faith,

but faith turned into a chapbook of pictures,

quite like ‘Flip pages and get finished’

and vanishes browning its deeds,

now the wrenches in the world’s hearts

are an open gate of ‘entrance and exit’.

A group of meditators, a morning sky,

a wholesome nature,

a new sunlight, a new hope,

a ‘everything new’ mania

are definitely undeniable

in the language of poetry

to compose everything peacefully

even if it seems a sarcastic ‘eye-wash’ to the world today!

~ ©storytellersuchismita


I am different now,

I stitch love on my skin

That once was torn apart with the words of hate.

Bright red lipstick stains my lips,

Silently calling the name of your memories.

Here I stand, dreaming you as an empty city

Where I can unveil the secret streets of your mind,

And end up collecting stories from the tender kisses of your lips.

I am different now,

I smell the fumes of alluring tomorrows,

Blending the colours of different moods

Where I portray you in my canvas,

And you portray me in yours.

My heart climbs your sky so high,

And pulls you to reach my walls.

We make a bridge of lights and love,

Where different me see the stars

Of eternity shimmering in your soul.

~ ©storytellersuchismita

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