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Bharath Nandibhatla







Bharath Nandibhatla (Landlocked Sailor)

Loves wordplay and is obsessed with puns. (Quite a sickening obsession) 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. :/


Top tags: yqbaba perksofbeingawallpaper verseworth allinone yourquoteandmine
A broken heart, 
an explosion.
Its shards hitting
everyone around,
sharp and deep.

But a guilty conscience,
it's an implosion.
Its venom flowing
into your veins,
dark and deep.

To forgive is a virtue.
To forgive yourself,
a necessity.

Own up to your mistakes. Not your guilt. Redemption begins where guilt ends.

Corner the crippled king,
you don't have to kill.
Bring his army to a standstill,
and you shall be their king.

(Full poem in caption...)

\\Castles on either sides *--*--*--*--* Castles on either sides. At war, were the blacks and whites. Oh, don't get me wrong, this isn't a racist song. Crippled Kings fight their way, with a well-guarded army. Queens have quite the say, and dare you to call that barmy! The Queens prance over the battlefield, guarding their Kings, safe and concealed. The Knights, chivalrous as they are, move in patterns, and not very far. While the Kings bear the Holy Cross, the holy Bishops cross their paths. The Rooks only head straight, mighty after a worthy wait. Of all that fight on this battleground, the myriad Pawns are the virtuous. Pledging their life to His Majesty, these are powerful than you can see. Storm them into the other castle, and they can resurrect your lost army. They vivify the battle, create the hustle, they make the rattle, and as much stormy. Yet, unlike the wars fought on land, you don't always have to march ahead. You don't have to always kill, instead make a move after you take a stand. Devoid of revenge or vices, this is surely a war of the intellect. Look at it, all Black & White, just like victory and defeat, with a fine line in between. Corner the crippled King, you don't have to kill. Bring His army to a standstill, and you shall be their King. To corner is to conquer, mate.. the nemesis is a checkmate! *--*--*--*--*

I'm sorry,
but the mirror doesn't show
the most beautiful part of you.
Your poetry does.

A part of you,
that I wish, was mine.
Your heart.

Your poetry reflects you far better than that mirror. And did you know the most beautiful part of me is ours? Memories?

He's a murderer, the Night.
A slow death, his poison of the dark.
The Stars stay a witness, cold-hearted,
as she decays into nothing, eventually.
None to her rescue, not even the Sun,
or the Wolves howling at her with love.

And when he kills her, he's all dark.
His vices, rendering him all blind.
He craves for redemption, light.
And she rises from her ashes,
with a crescent smile, glowing,
and grows into her element.
The Stars, now winking, 
the Wolves, now howling.
The Night, now redeemed.

But, the dark vices take over.
He kills her again, with his venom.
And he repents when she's gone.

Truly, the affairs of the night
are an unjust paradox.
And she, the Moon, 
a phoenix he never deserved.

The Murderer and the Phoenix. PS: Notice that the shape of the poem is a lantern.

Maybe the shrapnel
of your sharp words
scarred my soul.

But wouldn't the shards
of my broken heart
scar your conscience?

But alas! I have a soul.
You don't have a conscience.

Once again,
even as we part,
we're never even.

A broken heart is an implosion. Not an explosion.

Is it too much to ask
that I want to be missed
when I'm all gone?

Is it too much to ask
that I want my wishes to be granted
and not to be taken for granted?

It hurts that I thought 
I was etching marks on stone,
while I was just leaving ephemeral
footprints on the sands of time,
only to be erased by winds.

I wanted to leave a trail,
but my footprints have been frail.

Or maybe nobody cared to follow the trails.

broke my heart.

Atleast, that tells
you aren't heartless.

That you could pour all your heart into something.

Reading minds, moving souls,
energy tough to contain,
intense, magnificent,
mature, and a prodigy.
You're a Jean Grey.

Causing storms, cyclones,
whirling winds, flooding rivers,
you can do it all, in a jiffy.
But most importantly,
you can calm all my storms
raging within, and quench
the thirst of a landlocked sailor.
You're the Storm.

I'm not sure 
if you're a mutant.

As I begin to think of it,
you've always been
all rolled into one.

5. #AllInOne X-Woman. If you're Jean Grey, I'm sure I'm Wolverine. The lone wolf that could never get you.