Thank you to the writers.
You somehow manage to portray a feeling that I a reader cannot put out there, you seem to understand what I am going through let it be pain, love, happiness, you understand me... Thank you for making me feel safe with your words. For making me feel as if I am not the only one.

To the readers.
Thank you for taking your time to listen to our words, to feel our emotions and being there for us just by reading our vulnerability. You accept us for what we really are.

To those who made a huge impact.
Thank you for the pain, the love and the chaos, Its been the best experience that has given us such motivation to keep writing and inspiration to those who needed someone to talk on their behalf.

To poetry.
Thank you for being my escape from reality, God knows how much I need it. Thank you for being more than just art but a way of Life. Thank you

What did I do,
To deserve you?
Why should I be the one,
To call you mom?

Did I lead a perfect previous faith?
Am I a reincarnated saint?

Neither, I am just lucky,
I was brewed in your tummy;

All I know about you,
Is that I am grateful,
That you make my life,
So full;

Being your son,
Is what I do best,
Even if,
I am such a pest;

I love you mom;

I was addicted to you;
you were allergic to me.

I have evolved

to survive in the blackest depths
where there is no light, no sound.
To survive at the tallest heights
where the air is too thin to breathe.
Yet, I am being crushed by the immense pressure
of the unexplored trenches of my mind.
I am being suffocated by the lack of oxygen
at the sickening peaks of my vacant euphoria.

I have evolved

not to thrive, not to live, but to survive, to exist.
I can't remember the last time I felt human
at the apex or the bottom of my trivial existence.
I don't believe that I ever was, because
humans have evolved to live
on stable grounds below the cliffs.
They have evolved to build the ships
that sail above me while I drift.

I have evolved






                                                   ­                                                     only to exist.

I am tired of being an empty shell that you find beautiful & eccentric.
I am tired of being a trope made by authors and directors.
I am like war and peace and not like a tissue paper you made me out to be.
I am tired of being your favourite shade of red.
I am tired of being a brush stroke, when I am the entire painting.
I am tired of being pinned to a pedestal.
I am tired of my existence and my name being relative.
I am tired of being a zany sidekick to the male protagonist in the movie that is my life.
I am tired of you thinking that I need help stilling the edges of my narrative, who longs for a tether or a buoy to keep her from flying off or sinking down.
I am tired of being told – unconventional, different and other such synonyms by boys, that I am not like other girls as if they are a disease and I am magic.
I am tired to be known as someone with wacky quirks and idiosyncrasies.
I am tired of being Alaska Young.
I am tired of being Sam from The Perks of Being a Wallflower.
I am tired of being Tiffany from The Silver Linings Playbook.
I am tired of being tagged as Sam from Garden State.
Or even Marla Singer from Fight Club.
Or even an Amelie or Penny from Almost Famous.
And every Zooey Deschanel character.
I am a Clementine.
I’m a Sylvia Plath.
I’m a Dorothy Parker.
A Maya and a Margaret.
You see, I am well versed
in death and in silence.
I have my interests and I am like all of the above. But I am “like” them. I am not them.
I am me.
I am scared now.
Scared of boys claiming to be wrapped in barbed wire
but is really a caged petting animal in the zoo.
I am tired of boys who thinks romance is a Hemingway novel.
But, most importantly I am tired.
Tired of men not falling in love with me
but instead falling in love with the idea of me.

Nomoreokaythankyouplease.