I’ve felt it stir inside.
Not every day, but it’s there.
Ominously growing
And eating my insides.

It’s something deep,
Like water, it causes ripples
And lets me drown
In it, too.

It's gripping me. At times,
I wake up at 3 in the morning,
Drenched in sweat
Wondering what it is.

And a part of me, which
Is immersed in sadness, slowly
Whispers back,
“It’s no one but
Me
Me
Me”

I’m a dead poet,
Buried six foot deep,
With vivid memories
That form a heap.

I’m a dead poet,
With words etched
In my heart, and
Fire formed art.

I’m a dead poet,
Covered in snow,
Rose petals and a
Withered glow.

Every artist has his own stroke, creates his own distinctive masterpiece. he realises, art is subjective and is incomparable. he knows every writer has his own collection of words that personify transcendence. There are uncanny strokes of paint brushes; drops of ink that transudate out on pieces of parchment;  he understands.
But then again when it comes down to him, the voice within his head that is clubbed along with introvert in him, the constant thought to remain an incognito and the feeling that throws him into a chasm of loneliness, makes him tally himself against the odds and deadpan.

I looked feverishly at the sky thinking how naked the night looked, and slowly glanced at myself.
I was covered in a blanket; wrapped up in the dark sky with a thousand shiny stars shimmering all around me.
The twilight chills seeped through me, causing my bones to clench themselves and hold on tight, and they made me realise:
If the night sky; a mere fragment of the universe loves to expand itself and love its cosmic-self, then I should be able to love my own body no matter how cumbersome it is.
I can conjure my body into a canvas and paint it. I can be my own chromatic artist.

Her bitter coffee is
everything she’s got
Stale toasts and a
sickening migraine bout.
Every time she chortles,
She is hiding an inept
hiccup filled with despair

Mentally audible gasps and misty flannels
But she’s busy, dusting filthy wooden panels

Focus, is her every second sacred chant,
Her clad body sticking with sweat,
Yet there she is carrying out a bant,
Trying to sound cheery and buoyant

Music that is setting off sensations
Whereas, her ears are only brimming with static  
She glances at the leaves falling on the road
She couldn’t blame herself for being
aesthetic.