Bharath Nandibhatla

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Bharath Nandibhatla (Landlocked Sailor)

Loves wordplay and is obsessed with puns. (Quite a sickening obsession) As a landlocked sailor, tides are my turf. Writing is catharsis when in crisis. A deep passion, every other time. Most of my works are fiction. Please don't ping me asking if I'm fine. :/ P.S.: Here's the link to my interview, if you wanna know me better: https://stories.yourquote.in/the-landlocked-sailor-that-tells-stories-meet-bharath-one-of-yqs-best-writers-f58ab189704f

https://www.facebook.com/landlockedssailor/

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Inside is a sea,
I wish to dive in.
Mighty sea. Deep.
Tides. Silent beneath.

You, a pirate.
By my sea, lured.
Its treasures, looted.
Fled. Traceless.

This once, the sea
misses not, the treasure.
But, the pirate.

Do you steal treasures?
Or my solace in solitude?

Alone. Solitude. With you around. Soulitude.

5 HOURS AGO

I've craved for wings all my life.
They meant freedom to me.
Until I saw the eagle 
fly back to its nest.

Wings aren't freedom.
Home is.

Freedom isn't about flying. It's about where you'd fly back to!

YESTERDAY AT 3:11

If I'm the night sky, fill me with starlight.
Untidy me, rip me off, spray some stardust.
Paint me up, with your lips, rosy and wet.
Reach out to every corner, with that vile tongue.
For I'm a canvas, craving for your touch.

(Full poem in caption...)

\\Paint me up *--*--*--*--* Like a canvas, you paint on me. Soft fingers, manicured nails. Your hair brushed over my face. Silky, flowy, fragrant. Naked to our souls, we rest on the floor. Bed's broken, the other night, like our virginity. Curled eyelashes, shapely brows, sapphire eyes, staring at me in dire passion, hungry. Submissive elsewhere, just not on bed, you! Paint me up with your colours, with fifty shades of grey, or darker. Sunshine on your skin, roses on your lips, deep seas and your eyes, identical twins. Are you the painter? Or the painting yourself? You might be the painter, to see such beauty in a dark canvas like me. But you are a painting, a masterpiece, curving where the strokes have to. Paint me up, with dirty strokes, filthy hues. The painting muses over the painter, this once. If I'm the night sky, fill me with starlight. Untidy me, rip me off, spray some stardust. Paint me up, with your lips, rosy and wet. Reach out to every corner, with that vile tongue. For I'm a canvas, craving for your touch. Paint me up, with your wild curves, steeper. Burn me up, with that wildfire in your eyes. Rip me down, to your wildest dreams. Tear me down, to your darkest grey. Baby, I was a canvas, plain and dull. That sunshine on your skin, that rain on your lips, you make me a rainbow, with darker hues and tints. Paint me up, with lust! *--*--*--*--*

18 JAN AT 3:52


In the nights like these, 
I wish they last longer. 
So my lips can rest 
longer on yours.
Irony though, 
they never rest on you.
Much like my heart, 
they tend to explore 
wild corners of you.

Taking a cue from Pooja Arora 's #NightsLikeThese series. Follow the handle for more of her works. Gives you a hot respite from the winter chills!!

17 JAN AT 23:23

You stayed,
when pieces of me didn't.

If I could have you
when I'm incomplete,
I wish I never get 
those pieces back.

If I could have you when I'm incomplete, then doesn't that make me complete?

14 JAN AT 18:49

When I saw her first,
butterflies in my stomach,
like they said.

But I guess I was a moth,
at the end of it all.

Lured by her glow,
and her warmth
in the winter chill,
I drew closer.

I saw fire in her eyes.
But she's a fire in this ice.
I drew too close,
and now, I'm just ashes.

Funny though, how she was cold to me and yet burnt me to ashes.

11 JAN AT 22:40

He'd never embrace me 
when there were people around. 
Never!
I was his best kept secret, he'd say.


(Continued in caption...)

\\Man Enough? *--*--*--*--* He'd never embrace me when there were people around. Never! I was his best kept secret, he'd say. What if I let those tears roll at the slightest emotion, what's to be ashamed of? What if I look at how they said it and just not what they said? What if I muse over Disney Princesses? What if I blush even at the subtlest compliments? What if I'm trying to be ME even when the world tries to rob me of it? He tries to fit into social stereotypes, to be a MAN. But, is he man enough to accept me? He says I don't go well with his 'image', that I don't get along with his demeanour. For the fitness freak that he is, he finds me to be a total misfit. Can I not be sensitive and sensible at the same time? Why doesn't he get that! Okay, do you see me ranting now? He hates that too. If you're expecting me to craft a literary masterpiece and not just some silly rant, I'm sorry. He's killed all my expression. Apparently, the society demands him to be on the logical side of things than the creative front. What even! Anyway, I have a few grudges to settle with him. Signing off, The Feminine side of every Man. *--*--*--*--*

10 JAN AT 20:51