when I'm burning near the ghats of ganga,
when my ribs collapse into prayer
and my heart starts to burn
the air will fill with the smell of
YOU
sandalwood and memories,
jasmine braided through your hair,
the turmeric stains on your fingertips
from the last meal you made for me.
Oh Ganga, when you receive my ashes,
be gentle with your current,
don't scatter me too far, too fast.
Let me linger near the ghats
where she comes to light diyas at dusk.
Let me swirl around her ankles
when she steps in to pray.
Let me be the silt that settles
on the hem of her saree,
hitching a ride back home.
Oh my love,
Watch the smoke spiral upward,
gray ribbons unraveling toward heaven.
I am not disappearing
I am becoming air,
becoming everywhere.
I will slip into the monsoon's belly,
I will ride the lightning home.
And when the first rain breaks,
do not hide my love,
do not hide beneath tin roofs,
do not cover yourself from the sky.
Stand in the courtyard.
Tilt your face upward.
Let the drops kiss your eyelids closed.
Because that is not drops falling
it is my hands,
finally learning how to hold you again.
It is my mouth
whispering every word
I forgot to say.
The earth will puddle with my longing.
The gutters will overflow with grace.
And you,
you my love,
you will be the NIRVANA
I was ever trying to reach.
Jan 4
Jan 4, 2026 at 10:00 AM UTC
and sometimes I wonder
must meaning always be carved
from ache and aftermath?
or can a poem rise
from a day that simply was
from laughter that left no bruise,
from a sky that asked for nothing?
perhaps not every truth
needs to be torn from silence
perhaps some verses exist
the way stars do:
not because it’s dark,
but because they were always burning.
Oct 16, 2025
Oct 16, 2025 at 5:43 AM UTC
They could sip the stars like wine,
share silver secrets with moon,
and fold the night sky beneath their gaze.
How could I ever stand i chance;
when all the cosmos,
choose you as its home.
Jul 1, 2025
Jul 1, 2025 at 6:23 AM UTC
For me,
Writing is like praying
in the middle of a tragedy.
When the world has cracked upon.
When something breaks
that words can't fix,
but must weave them together.
Tragedy doesn't ask for beauty,
Only truth.
Even if that truth is trembling,
Fragmented,
Barely breathing
on the page.
The blank document becomes a place
where I can speak
to something
or someone
without needing a reply,
Without having to explain myself,
Without apologizing
for the mess of it all.
Some people write to move on.
I write to stay,
to sit behind these ruins
and whisper:
"I saw this,
It mattered.
It hurts like hell."
And in those moments
writing about lost love
or people who are gone
but never truly absent
something shifts.
I find GOD there,
or maybe GOD finds me
in the wreckage.
Not in thunder,
not in easy answers,
but in that quiet breath
between one word and next
In the space where honesty lives.
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 6:55 AM UTC
You stand where the night devours itself,
drowned in the sickly glow of dying stars.
The air does not move it waits,
as if it fears your departure more than I.
Take my hand, if hands still matter,
if the flesh is not yet weary of grasping.
Beyond the horizon, the void hums,
a song without memory, without end.
Would you stay, if the sky collapsed?
If the gods turned their backs, indifferent?
I would cast my name into the fire,
let time devour me, if only to remain.
So let the dark stretch infinite and cruel,
I will walk where shadows have no shape.
And if you call, I will follow
not as a man, but as a whisper in the abyss
May 2, 2025
May 2, 2025 at 12:45 AM UTC
I sold my freedom to poetry
and never looked back.
let ink carve oaths,
oaths of lament, agony, affliction.
Every relationship a writing prompt,
each goodbye an unfinished draft.
half-written verses crimsoned the margins,
monsters growling between the lines.
I revive old wounds for epiphany,
reshape anguish until it rhymes.
Every trauma, a metaphor
a sonnet dressed in ruin,
a haiku carved from ache.
And when the page is filled,
when the ink dries,
who remains—me, or the dead poet??
Feb 8, 2025
Feb 8, 2025 at 2:11 PM UTC
I wasn't born a poet, the poet in me was born after you arrived.
Dec 9, 2024
Dec 9, 2024 at 1:10 AM UTC
If a poet fills his wounds with poetry, will his body become a masterpiece?
Sep 4, 2024
Sep 4, 2024 at 3:23 PM UTC
Trees never cry for the fallen leaves,
they always welcome the new one .
May 29, 2024
May 29, 2024 at 1:41 PM UTC
In the cascade of light, she flows like a stream,
While I, with an old thirst, in her beauty gleam.
I've quenched my longing, with a gaze so deep,
Capturing her essence, in my heart, I keep.
With every passing moment, l linger in her sight,
Banishing thoughts of others, swiftly, out of sight.
For in her radiance, I find my endless quest,
To dwell in her presence, is where I find my rest.
Apr 13, 2024
Apr 13, 2024 at 12:50 PM UTC