It's funny,
this thing called love.

Yet,
it rarely makes
anyone laugh.

Graffiti upon the walls,
inspirational messages
to boost up passers-by
on the side walk,
their backs bent just a little,

hunched with burdens,
and sweat which drips
down the brows, disgustingly
and dangerously close
to dribbling down the chins...

not one amongst those pay
a second glance to the other,
each caught up in their own
cycle of life, their legs fatigued,
to the point of collapsing,

and there...near the end
of the pavement, a man holds
his guitar steady, singing
at the top of his lungs, an equally
inspirationally gross song

to lift up the spirits
of weary individuals.

What is love without trust,
I wondered throughout the day, as I heard
the sound of my heart quietening;

the frost which had begun
to melt, made its way back
through broken heart beats.

What is love without trust,
I asked you, but silence rushed by,
amidst heavy breaths, and


we pretended, yet again,
on the edges of normalcy.

Sometimes, incredulous at
the way things take turns
at baffling us, and we're caught
by surprise, as life, which
grimaced mischievously before,

miraculously rearranges its
features; a kind hand, though
virtual, extends through the
boundaries of invisible channels,
almost touching...

and there, in those moments,
I struggle to find the right words,
relying instead on my emojis
to convey the rest...

Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere veils,
itching for a soothing touch
upon a poet's burning soul.

And when those layers of words
upon words are unveiled,
(if one dares to)

know that underneath all
that rubble, one last hiccup
is being taken.


Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere longings
and fantasies; a kingdom
of smoke a poet builds, where
inky demons prowl and
leave footprints.

And when all that
mist is dissolved, with
naked truths dangling mid-air,

know that beyond that fallen
kingdom, a poet lies broken,
yet half - mended.


Those pretty words, the only
companion in a completely
unsimplistic world.

You think that perhaps, a word or stare,
or a ***** phrase hurled down the hem of a skirt,
can keep a woman caged and scared.

Perhaps you think too, that the only place
which suits a woman is near a musty stove,
that she should walk just along your pace.

I woe such men on their high horse,
galloping around with no remorse ...

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I pondered over your words,
silently memorizing your face,
my mind buzzed, as every possible
reason skipped around to present
a bouquet of thoughts.

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I sat down to write memoirs
but no words came,
and my pen stopped mid-air,
while letters danced...

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I wished, secretly, that
you'd asked how much I love you,
for I would have answered:
"You are my first waking thought...
that's how much I love you."

'Cause for reasons on why do I love you,
my pen seems pathetically dry. ..

I have burned the bridges
and walked on tight ropes
of meaningless hopes,

which bloom
in graveyard of thoughts;

where wanderers roam,
silent, with hollow laughs,
while nursing ...dormant hearts.