#unsent letters to my silver lining

[writingmonster-kavya]

To my silver lining,

Did my best to blow away the monsoon clouds

But they still towered above with a few seconds of wait

Not to rain I plead and shout

But the clouds just sneer and it begins to rain

Water streams drip from my hair and run through by back

Slithering through my body like ice cold snakes

I have nowhere to go, so wouldn’t it be better if I had

Given in to the freezing grip of the rain?

Wouldn’t it be better to just close my eyes and drift away?

But, look, there's a silver lining in the sky

It looks too beautiful not to witness

Though it would take time for the rain to stop still

I guess I could wait as the rain passes

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(The image isn't mine, it's from pinterest. Thank you for reading the poem, hope you like it!!! Have a great day!!!)

[namusthetic]

The Writers' Series

Who wrote you, based on your aesthetic?

British Edition

---------🖋️

Oscar Wilde

"You can never be overdressed or overeducated."

Irregular sleep schedule

Sprawling on a sofa quoting poets long gone

The forbidden sweetness of guilty pleasures

The gently whispered name of a lover

Losing oneself to sensations and feelings

Writes poems for their lovers

Dressing up only for the pleasure of doing so

That dizzy feeling of late night adventures

Procrastination and unsent letters

An old silver framed broken mirror and forgotten withered roses

Sitting alone late at night. The thick, stuffy air in the room is making you dizzy and dulls your senses

Virginia Woolf

"How many times have people used a pen or a paintbrush because they couldn't pull the trigger?"

The soft first autumn breeze

Spending winter afternoons in hidden library corners

Taking long walks along the riverbank in the early afternoon

Gives good advice but doesn't follow it

Scented candles and gentle nostalgia

The furious, quiet calmness of the ocean before a storm

Orange blossoms and sea salt

The texture of paper under your fingertips and the sound of chirping from outside the window

Wants to change the world one word at a time

Never forgives, never forgets

Reads poems in the golden afternoon light

Romantic but won't talk about their feelings

William Shakespeare

"The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves."

Wine stains on victorian shirts

The sound of footsteps on marble floors

Scribbling random Latin sentences in other people's notebooks

Dark, alluring, and a little bit occult

Writes poems on random scraps of paper and then forgets about them

The line between dreams and reality starting to blur

Loud, contagious laugh

Sword fights back stage

A lone flickering candle in the night

Laughs and cries at the same time when overwhelmed with emotion

Believes in the power of the unsettling and the forbidden

Sprawls on any available surface just to read tragedies and drink wine

Mary Shelley

"When I looked around, I saw and heard of none like me. Was I then a monster?"

The sound of your heart beating in your ears when waking up from a nightmare

Anatomy and science illustrations

Equations and formulas scribbled everywhere

The touch of cold metal on warm skin

The clap of thunder and insistent drumming of heavy rain on the windowpanes

The muffled sound of cracking thunder from outside

Organized shelves and absentminded humming

Cold gravity and solemn silences

The cold shudder of realisation

Pacing back and forth trying to solve grave problems and unexpected results

Empathizes easily

Agatha Christie

"Poirot," I said. "I have been thinking."

"An admirable exercise my friend. Continue it."

Hot chocolate on cold winter days while people watching inside an old Café

Sitting down in parks and reading the paper

The scent of clean laundry

Windswept hair and sharp looks

Spontaneous conversations and smiling at strangers

Could prove anyone wrong solely for their own amusement

Wet pavements glinting in the sunshine after a rain shower

Apricot jam, fresh baked croissants and café au lait while reading the newspaper in the early morning

A glint in their eyes and a spring in their step

Peppermints and vanilla hand cream

Sarcasm and condescending smiles

J.R.R. Tolkien

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

Early morning dew sparkling on spiderwebs

The awareness and clarity that comes with crisp morning air

Daisies, gingerbread and warm comfy clothes

Really into folklore

Snail shells and acorns kept in a jacket's pocket

The scent of fresh homemade bread in the morning

The gentle murmur of the wind blowing through the trees

Nothing could make them miss their afternoon tea

Knows the name of every plant or bird species

Presses flowers in their notebooks

That spark for adventure glims constantly in their eyes

George Orwell

"But if thought corrupts language, language can also corrupt thought."

The smell of cigarettes and the sound of steps on the wet pavement

Long night walks around the city

The cold winter wind howling against the windows

Cheap black coffee drank in a small almost empty 24/7 coffee shop

Tired eyes and vivid dreams of liberty

Messy, rushed writing

The condensation on a cold window

Minimalist notebooks and black ballpoint pens hidden everywhere

Trying desperately to be free, to feel alive

The deafening silence of loneliness and the gentle quiet of solitude

T. S. Eliot

"For I have known them all already, known them all / Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, / I have measured out my life with coffee spoons."

Coffee and ink stains

Tiny scribbled notebooks carried around in worn out messenger bags

Reads to escape the real world

Reading on public transportation and almost missing the stop

Falls in love five times a day

Strong coffee and dark chocolate

Feels like nobody can truly understand them

Doesn't take care of themselves

Stacks their books randomly around their house, forgetting empty coffee mugs and notepads on top of them

Flopping facedown on the bed and listening to the sounds of the life out the window

[vimpalpadhiyar]

There are letters I never sent, there are letters I never wrote, there are letters I never received, there are letters which get lost and there are letters I got which were not meant for me, and they all weigh me down.

Those letters full of dark clouds, and silver linings, but there are some with crimson sky too... These all I've preserved somewhere between the walls of my heart. Rooting them deep , unable to escape.

These letters, these unsent letters, they're all I own, they're all who I am.

-dark shadow

[ofmenoetius]

✖ ▒ OH, WHAT A COINCIDENCE! i was just thinking of [ PATROCLUS SON OF MENOETIUS ]. most swear their resemblance to [ SEAN TEALE ] is unmistakable, but he has / they have been around since the [ BRONZE AGE ]. it is rumoured that the [ DEMIBOY ] was born in [ OPUS ] in the year [ 1205 BC ], even though they don’t look a day over [ THIRTY ]. what a shame, though: they were once famed for being [ HONEST ] and [ PASSIONATE ] ; yet now, they seem more and more [ RESERVED ] and [ MERCURIAL ]. but while [ PATROCLUS ] spends their days working as a [ HARPIST FOR THE LONDINIUM SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA ], they are already notorious around town for [ UNSENT LOVE LETTERS ADDRESSED TO NO ONE ; BANDAGED FINGERS AND CALLOUSED HANDS ; A BEAT UP OLD FLIP PHONE ; THE FAINT SCENT OF COFFEE AND CARDAMOM ]. when you live forever, you might as well make the most of it. 

hi, hello –– i’m bella + also the worst !! this is my baby patroclus who’s one part powerpuff girl, two parts physical embodiment of the eyeroll, and generally just has really bad frown lines from being in a Bad Mood for like thousands of years or whatever. ( will not get botox sadly, someone convince him ) anyway –– i am here for every single plot of every single kind !! just like this and / or hmu on discord @ halaldaddy#3725 !!

TASK ONE : THE RUNDOWN

▼ STATISTICS.

full name: patroclus, son of menoetius.

moniker / nickname: officially goes by patrick in 2020, and he has the fake ids to prove it. generally isn’t the biggest fan of nicknames. 

titles: tbd.

gender && pronouns: demi-boy && he / him + they / them. 

dob && age: april 24th, 1205 BC && really old –– about 3224 years old, give or take, but he’s been thirty for a really long time. 

place of birth: opus, greece. 

previous residences: opus, athens, larissa, cape town, cardiff, inverness, paris, milan, caracas, && londinium –– in that order. 

zodiac sign: taurus. 

ethnicity: white && venezuelan. 

sexual orientation: demisexual. 

romantic orientation: homoromantic. 

occupational history: perpetual soldier, squire, orange farmer, lutist, revolutionary, boxer, harpist. among others. 

▼ PHYSICAL APPEARANCE.

face claim: sean teale.

height: 185 cm && 6′2. 

physical build: mesomorph && visibly muscular && painfully straight back from years of his father’s voice still stuck in his head. ( it’s 2020, maybe he really should go to therapy for his daddy issues, but how do you tell a therapist your dad died before the trojan war ?? asking for a friend. )

eye colour and shape: dark brown && hooded, really long lashes which he does oil at night && also lines his eyes with kohl. it’s habit. 

hair colour and style: dark, cropped, usually trimmed neatly. 

usual expression: bored, reluctant smile.

accent and speech style: heavily accented english, but it’s impossible to pin down where he might be from. speaks spanish and greek with more ease than he does english.

distinguishing marks / characteristics: both ear lobes pierced, gold studs in both. a shield tattooed on his left flank. plenty of scars –– one across his right eyebrow, scarred && calloused hands, a very large scar that refused to heal right on his left shoulder. 

clothing style: anything he can find, really ; athletic for the most part, but smart button-downs ( always button-downs, never button ups ) for work. 

jewellery and accessories: a thin, gold chain around his neck ; his an engraved ring hangs from it, tucked away. a deliberate collection of rings on his fingers: a curved edge, yellow gold signet ring from a third-generation foundry in greece ; a classic medusa ring picked up in florence during the renaissance ; a turquoise inlaid silver signet ring ; a silver plated band, worn on his left thumb.

▼ FAMILY.

father: menoetius, deceased ( thank fuck ). 

mother: philomela, deceased. 

siblings, if any: myrto, his sister. 

extended relations: none that he knows. 

significant other(s): achilles && only achilles. it could only ever be achilles.

children: none, except his –– 

household pet(s): he has two tabby cats named menelaus and ajax ( just a little fun joke for himself, okay –– don’t @ him. ) 

▼ FAVOURITES.

colour: gold ; every shade. 

weather: storms –– it reminds him of mornings spent inside, the air sticky and humid, sweat on his upper lip and a laugh on his tongue. 

food item: he’s a vegetarian –– he always has been, especially since he didn’t always have food, especially during the 1100s. so yeah, patroclus isn’t exactly picky –– anything veg and vaguely edible’s fine –– but he does love a vegan burger ( normal cheese, please ). the perks of the 21st century. okay, and he loves green olives. 

beverage: he’s a stereotype, he loves red wine. ( fine, he hates wine –– he likes tequila. )

time of day: late at night, late enough that the streets are quiet and the air feels thin and he can breathe deeply. 

television genre: not that patroclus has time to watch tv –– plus he’s got one of those old picture tube tvs from the dinosaur era –– but he loves a good underwater documentary. and shark week. and the history channel –– he likes to catch what they got wrong. 

favourite era lived: he’d do anything to go back to the day before he died –– anything. to say a proper goodbye, to say all the very many things he’d never said because he thought he had all the time in the world. but also, he really loved the ‘70s in londinium.

▼ PERSONALITY.

hobbies: boxing && reading && falling asleep in the sun. 

pet peeves: people talking in circles && liars. 

phobias: patroclus doesn’t like drowning. he’s died of drowning once && come back from it, but he absolutely hated it. he’ll take anything over it. 

allergies: coffee. which is fine, because patroclus likes green tea anyway. ( well, green tea with like three whole spoonfuls of honey. )

mbti type: isfj – t.

enneagram type: 

35% the challenger.

48% the skeptic.

22% the peacemaker.

positive traits: passionate && honest && loyal && dependable.

negative traits: reserved && mercurial && blunt && pessimistic && headstrong && forlorn.

morning routine: goes for a run every morning before dawn, goes to a boxing class, has breakfast at the bookshop on the way home, and gets to work at least an hour early. it’s boring and it’s too familiar and patroclus wouldn’t change it –– he’d rather have predictable than the alternative. he’s tired of losing people and places and old routines, so he’s holding on to this one until he has to move again in another twenty years.

beauty routine: nothing really ; patroclus keeps his beard neat and his hair trimmed. he oils and curls his lashes, oils his beard. he misses baths –– big baths that you could sit in and just stay in until you pruned. but he only has a shower in his apartment now. 

sleeping habits: patroclus hasn’t slept through the night since before his first death ; nowadays, it’s a few hours of sleep at a time, and plenty of nightmares to keep him company. the good thing is, he’s very used to waking up early –– rather than tossing and turning or watching his ceiling until dawn, he’s up and out of bed. 

oldest belonging: he doesn’t have anything –– nothing. patroclus always leaves things behind, always. it’s easier that way. and sure, he regrets it sometimes. but there’s no use crying over the past, right? not when he has an endless future. 

living space && home: it’s small –– it’s really small. but it has bay windows, a shitty little terrace with doors that the wind knocks open, and plants everywhere. there’s a kingsize mattress on the ground, one set of sheets total and they’re made of cotton-silk. orange, of course.  

INTRODUCTION : tw death ; tw war .

his childhood wasn’t pretty. patroclus was born too skinny, too weak –– maybe not sickly, but he wasn’t wanted. he wasn’t loved. he was born into a war, and his war was his father. his war was his father’s shame. so when he killed another by accident –– in anger, in frustration, by mistake –– his father was more than happy to ship him off ; and somehow, that was the greatest gift his father could have ever given him. thanks, dad. 

it’s been so long, everything feels like a dream. it feels too sunlit and too warm to the touch. it feels too easy. and sure, he can’t remember all that much about it. but he remembers achilles. he remembers being so happy that he felt sick to his stomach. but he doesn’t remember hector’s knife in his stomach or dying that very first time. but he remembers waking up to hades in the underworld, and he remembers the sickening realisation that he could never go back ever again –– he was here, and he was alive, and he still had to leave everything he once knew behind. 

patroclus didn’t want money or fame ; he’d only ever wanted a love to call his own and a place to call his home. and since he’d lost both already, he was tired. so he went off to work on an orange farm, right at the edge of the world –– or well, the edge of his world. he was still in greece, news travelling to them every few months or years, and it was alright. he was away from the rest of the world, labouring under the cruel sun and sleeping into the cool night, and waking up to do it all over again. he smiled at the kids on his way into town and gave them an armful of oranges each. and then when people began to wonder whywhywhy he wasn’t aging, patroclus moved on to the next village –– and then the next, and then the next. 

it was 1465 + he was in florence when he saw a lute again –– a laugh escaping him before he could start to remember when he last laughed out loud. it reminded him of home, of a long time ago. so he began to play for money and food and a place to stay. and it took him all over the world –– meeting people who’d die before he’d reach his next destination and learning things he’d never be able to forget. 

going to war became a habit. the crusades, the gallic wars, the jacobite rising, the war of the roses, the french revolution, the seven weeks war, world war i, the russian revolution, world war ii, and so very many more –– patroclus wasn’t really fighting, but he was trying. he was trying to make sure some good came out of them, that there was some death that he could stop, some blows he could take if it meant another lived. but at some point, he just couldn’t keep doing it anymore. his heart hurt and his nightmares followed him in the daylight. 

now, well –– he’s a harpist for the londinium symphony. patroclus has been her for all of about 12 years now ; he doesn’t want to move, not yet. but throughout his many, many lifetimes, he’s perfected and loved the harp –– it’s the only thing he recognises in this brave new world, and he’s going to hang onto it for as long as he can. 

WANTED CONNECTIONS.

survival of the stubborn: a mentor, someone patroclus met after a long, long time of being immortal, but someone who taught him to stop being completely miserable and enjoy the time they have. if it wasn’t for this person, patroclus probably wouldn’t have lasted all that long.

death becomes you: immortal friends ; the gang, the squad. the ride or dies –– so to speak. they can go decades without talking or meeting, but they get together again every fifty years and know they can rely on each other. plus, they can literally whatsapp each other now –– like, what. 

orange you glad to see me: he worked on an orange farm in greece after their first death in about 1200 BC, and met this person there. maybe this person owned the farm, maybe this person was just a guest of the owners, maybe they also worked on the farm, or maybe they just met each other in the village nearby –– but they met again years and years and years later and it was a lowkey lightbulb moment of oh, so i’m not alone out here for patroclus !! 

please turn the music off: musician friends + members of the orchestra ( mortal or immortal ) + anyone who’s into music and they might have met each other over the years !! perhaps a mentor or maybe they even totally hate each other, but just about any type of music relation !!

encore, encore: patroclus worked / played in a few different courts over the years –– always the lute or harp –– so this might be someone he might have played for !! 

tequila’s my best friend: drinking buddies !! what it says on the tin. patroclus is a miserable drinker, usually ends up spilling all of his secrets, sometimes ends up breaking things. 

the war followed me back home: patroclus served in plenty of wars until 1950 –– far too many, with new names and new titles and new ranks every time. to do some good in the world. or maybe they were just chasing their first death at hector’s hands. either way –– this is someone they might have served with !! could be a commanding officer ; a fellow soldier ; or even a doctor / nurse !!

old enemies, new friends: people he just doesn’t get along with. at all. ever. they’re always hated each other, maybe they even killed each other a few times, but just some sort of enemies !!

more to be added !!

[morphemeaddict]

Loop Closed

Oh little one Half of a two-line Near-rhyme Stretched tense between she and I

Just a precious few Ounces of silver Once had you Wrapped around my finger An anchor of another sort Now sinkweight for letter torn Neat from notebook and unsent Except on ripples of air to the deer of frozen forest Raise you to my lips In substitute kiss Press you warm against smudging ink And release you to the crystal creek Blurry-eyed I trace you Ferried lazily by current clear Kneel to see you disappear Downstream into memory

And pull to eat from pocket A perfect perfumed orange With which, we know, Nothing rhymes

[writingmonster-kavya]

Somebody to you

Giving out all my light, still it doesn’t feel bright enough

The echoes of my unreached expectations’ unrest stirs

The urge to close my eyes and just -

But a star’s twinkle catches my eyes

My skies gasp as lightning strikes

“No. Not her.” I say while falling

She feels like uncontrolled shooting stars,

so dizzying, so maddening,

I was sure about the skies but it starts thundering

A million voices in my head scream that I’m blundering

But your melody drowns their voices and I wonder if they are really true

Because is it not right, even for a moment, to want to be somebody to you?

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(This poem was inspired by the song "Somebody to you" by The Vamps. The image isn't mine. It's from pinterest.Thanks for reading the poem, hope you have a great day!!!)

[writingmonster-kavya]

My Irida

And I called her my Irida, my Iris,

The one who is the personification of rainbows, a messenger from heaven,

With wings so bright that whenever she comes down from mount Olympus, the palace of the gods to the mortal realm her wings leave behind the bright colours of the rainbow everywhere she goes, enchanting all the people around.

She is a goddess, a force that is just too pure to exist here among us mortals.