They love and lose,
    I have no
 love to choose.

They fall,
    and feel it all —

I
 fall,
      and
        don’t
          feel
        ­    at
              all.



They don't talk
     'cause they don't.
I don't talk
     'cause they won't —
        hear me...

          they won't
            see me.



They love me as a friend
    But
      I play pretend.

They blame it’s
   their fault —
        but I know it’s
          not —
              'cause it’s

me.
    I’m my own
        burdening.



Though I silently hope
    they'll carry
       all my weight.

I know it might hurt,
        but
                                      I just want a
              break —

Still, I’ll stay
      I’ll help you
         through the day.



They see

    a hero
         through their eyes,

but I made myself

      a villain
         deep inside.

Heroes
    don’t save
       their foes.

Plus —

    they don’t really know
         what’s hidden

                  below.

I wonder–

Will a world full of poets
Be happy
or sad.

Dear dad,
Your contagious beams,
Spread through my body,
Infect my cheeks.

You reflect the day-
The soul of a child,
In the body of a man-
Life's not kind.

Yet you shine,
As a movie critique,
With zero dad ***,
And a good physique.

However busy,
You may be,
You leave it all aside
For our family.

Very grateful we must be.
Not all heroes are caped, you see,
Because dad,
You are our hero in a lungi!

Fully cooked batter,
Sprinkle of half-baked sighs.
A recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Throw out the salt;
Add aged cheese,
A dollop of sugar,
A dash of chilies.

Don’t mention the sweat,
Nor the quiet cries.
Because
It’s the recipe of truth —
Never a lie.

Serve the truth,
Or leave it dry.
Maybe a pinch of water,
But never a lie.

Unfinished conversations
linger in the air,
dropping low—
the weight of 242 innocent souls.

Doctors see more blood
in sterile rooms
than soldiers do
on broken land.

Go away
502 Bad Gateway

Yes, I lost the old me.
Yes, I'm the only one who can get it back.
But I'm getting tired, you see...
I just wish I had someone
I could call mine.
Not to give,
But to remind,
And help me find
The old me.

Sown seeds grow into crops
on a wide field.
The longevity of the crop
is not always dependent
on the time taken to nurture it.

Too much water
floods the pores,
slowly seeping out,
no longer able to reach the roots —
and the shoot eventually dies.

Other external forces,
like pests and weeds,
reduce the yield.

The health of the crop
can be improved
by frequent irrigation —
not too much, not too little.

Frequent ploughing of the field,
regular manuring, and
assurance of no interference
is more than enough
to bear fruit.

Hello fam!
I'll be posting lesser poems,
'cause I'll have lesser time.
But, I'll keep in touch!
Until then,
Goodbye!

I am Ice-cream!
I am the winter in the summer!
Sweet in taste!
Cold in touch!
Sensitive in heart!

Somethings changed in me.
I'm no longer the tough and bold girl I used to be.
I no longer cackle or laugh my heart out.
I no longer yap, scream or shout.
I'm no longer the girl who was disgusted by love.
I'm no longer the girl who was worn like a glove.
I'm no longer the girl who was thin and lean.
I'm no longer the girl with the good jawline.
I'm no longer her with red and brown spots.
I'm no longer her with a face full of dots.
No,
Then what am I now?
That I know–
I am a girl who's sensitive and sweet.
I am a girl who's fragile and weak.
I am a girl who let's out small giggles.
I am a girl with a voice so soft, it tickles.
I am a girl who melts, when I see love and care.
I am also a girl who's independent, no longer a pair.
I am a girl whose put on some weight.
I am a girl just accepting fate.
I am a girl with dotted lines.
I am a girl with wrinkled smiles
Which one do you like? If you'd ask me,
I think I'd say
The new new me~

Summer's coming to an end,
It's time for school to begin.
Classes shuffled,
Noises muffled—
School's never been this silent.

In a class of 34,
I've never felt this alone.
My pen, my only company.
Though there's less time for poetry.
No more free periods,
Just teachers shouting.
Period

Reading and reading—
A slow misery.
Just four more years—
Then I'm set free.

Summer's coming to an end,
It's time for school
to begin...

Looking strong,
Isn't always an advantage.
    Sometimes,
They forget you're human.
                They break you
                               And break you
                                              And break you,
And won't even bother to ask,
     If you're ok.

Honk honk honk honk,
Honking till our minds go bonk!
Honkin’ here, and everywhere,
Honkin’ even if no one’s there.

Honking like they’re driving high,
Honking like they’re ’bout to die.
Still honking after seeing red,
Honking till our ears bleed blood.

Then there enters a tortured guy—
Probably the wisest in Mumbai:
“Gimme a *****, lend me a hand,
Let me show them well who owns this land.”

One of the greatest makes of mankind:
The decibel meter—time to shine!
You wanna honk? Go ahead—
If you want the timer reset instead!

The more you honk,
The more you wait.
Stay within the limits—
You’ll be safe.

No more honk honk honk,
No more minds going bonk!

Once upon a time,
there lived a family of four.
There were always disputes and quarrels
behind the door.

All four brothers
stood firm and high,
while the father looked back at them
with a sad little sigh.

With all failed attempts
to resolve the fight,
he would teach 'em a lesson
to set them right.

"Go fetch a bundle of sticks,
just near the cattle!
Lemme teach you all a lesson—
a lesson to never battle!"

As they trudged along their paths,
under their breath they mumbled,
"Now what are these for?!"
They groaned, and they fumbled.

In the house, the father
told them to break the lot.
They tried and tried and tried,
but in the end, could not.

Then the father said,
"Now, break a single one."
In just a matter of seconds,
it was already done.

Now this is where they realize the moral of the story...

When we are together,
we are strong and hard.
We have the gift of unity—
thank the Lord!

When we are divided,
we are easy to break.
But when we are united,
a good team we make.

"Now do you realize
the mistakes you've made?
Now do you realize
the values you can take?"

"Yes, we do—
we're proud to say!"

Stems of memory
sprout from the roots of our heads,
nourished by cleansing rituals and events.
As we mature, so do they—
a young, shaggy tuft flourishes into thick threads,
looping at the ends like grapevine curls.

Some strands grow weak and brittle,
corroded by storms of stress,
waves of sweat,
droughts of heat,
and floods of chemicals.

Eventually, they loosen—
too exposed, too old to thrive alone—
and slip down the drain in scribbles of ink,
pulling along unfinished stories and thoughts,
leaving gaps, holes,
blank spaces in memory.

In time’s wrath,
what once bloomed and burgeoned
wilts and withers
into dry, forgotten clumps—
until one day,
no roots, no memories—
only silence.

Your poems
need not necessarily be
an ocean of metaphors,
brimming with lofty words.

Sometimes,
all it takes
is a drop of water
to quench
an ant’s thirst.

Life, a living orchestra —
a slow, steady climb,
the beginning of an overture,
greeted by the ****** of bells,
a gentle lullaby.

Gradually ascending —
a hum of the cello,
followed by a whisper of drums,
and a surge in pitch —
an escalating crescendo.

Emotions of music —
an overwhelming symphony,
dances alive,
attains its pinnacle,
an immense apogee.

A languid fall,
Into a pit of echoes,
all life enervates,
fading;
the final moments
before the end begins.

Aftermath creeps,
ushering in silence,
inching along,
devouring bit by bit,
towards a silent cadence.

A hundred thousand homes destroyed,
A hundred thousand souls trampled,
A hundred thousand dreams crushed.
All that remained was red–
Hearts surrendered,
the color of blood,
All for her–
a love worth the world.

The process of life
is like knitting fabric-
A slow, tiresome art,
calling for a lot of patience.

There are ups,
there are downs,
encountered by twists and turns—
and eventually,
in the midst,
tight knots.

But that is what sews it up!

In this course,
none are left in abeyance.

Every thread is distinguished,
with its own sole purpose
in making "living" whole.

Even one plucked out—
and the garment entirely unfolds.

All of us are strands of yarn,
crafted by the hands of God
bound together by the cosmos,
to make one beautiful piece:
Life.