I wish I could tell you I’m a loner
No more, whenever I need your hands
And lips holding every part of me, and
Shredding my threshold because this is just
A guard I build to keep people from invading
Our heaven, I wish I could shout and sing to the world
Our songs of love, they find freakishly weird,
Because they haven’t seen a love like this and lovers
Like we’re going to be, I would write in every inch of this
Air, and sand, and river, and sky,
About how I’m at loss of words to explain this feeling
Because with you, I’m not me and my words are not
Mine anymore, but just your smell and touch
I long to explore and explain to thousand stars and
Raindrops, just to prove that their beauty fails so
Horribly before your hazel eyes, and I know
Even petrichor would shy against your fragrance,
So I don’t have concrete answers whenever you ask
“what are we” and “what is this feeling”
Because I don’t know,
I don’t know how you turn my blood and bones
Into a wild whisper and I don’t know
Why your thoughts are enough to let a smile
Brew around me, because with you, I’m
Not me and my words are not mine anymore.

I’ll let you go today,
for these hands are too tired
holding onto someone
who never belonged here,
I’ll let you leave,
and not let a single tear travel
down my face,
for it has forgotten the
pain of a smile.
I’ll let you go today
for anything that toxic
doesn’t deserve to stay.

You have always been my favorite story.
The story of a girl, who held her dead mother,
All night and refused to let go even in the morning,
For she claimed, she was holding her last breath.
The story of a girl who just never knew
When to give up and to let go.
For you were a girl who tried to capture
From air to the petrichor,
Held onto his fingers like they were your
Only saviors and you couldn’t let go
Of them, could you?
You were a girl with weak heart and
Big words, that you used to make people stay,
Leaving your threshold before the sunrise,
And if that didn’t help, your lanky fingers
Crawling to their sides and back,
Knocking on the doors, you knew would never
Open, banging onto them, trying to make
A hole, you were so sure a finger would be enough.
A single touch could bring back, which never belonged
Here, and people might see you as a pathetic, daft
Girl, who could never feel the toxicity,
Could never get over an addiction,
But for me you were always a story of hope,
Of courage, and of strength.
Because some people like to hold onto things,
While some like to be held.

When my doctor diagnosed me as a schizophrenic,
My mother broke into tears, like it was worse thing anyone
Could be, I wanted to tell her to stop, it was starting to feel
Too unreal, I have been living in this mind for so long,
That I have turned against this world, which
Looks at me like I’m a burden to carry, I talk to air
Sometimes, it’s not insanity, not everything you can’t see is
Insanity, I sometimes see my grandmother, and I tell her
I miss her that I’m sorry I wasn’t there when she counted
Her last breath, you might feel it to be weird, but it’s not worse
Than this guilt gnawing at me, my mind is a canvas painted
By thousands of painters, and the pictures here don’t make sense,
But art doesn’t need to make sense.
I feel like a graveyard sometimes, haunted by the souls
That will never leave me, I feel like a morgue sometimes,
Walking around with my own corpse, that bleeds sometimes,
I am not abnormal or special or weird,
I see constellation in people, and I see a ray in you
When you smile, my hand stutters objecting to human
Touch, and I don’t call out for hugs, but this body could use some
Warmth, my imagination doesn’t run ahead, it goes round
And round,
Living in this body, is like inhabiting with a foe,
Which slowly takes over you, and you have no shield,
These meds help you sleep dreamless at night, but
They won’t protect you, nothing will be here to
Clutch on when demons that resides in you arrive,
So all you do is crawl on your bed, trying to take
As less space as possible, not letting the fear
Cover every part of you, you think you’re still here,
But you’re not, and thats exactly how it feels like
Living in a schizophrenic mind.

My mother was 20 when it happened
in a dark veil, she planted a fruit of nine months
in the ground, never to grow again, and
even though she never talks about it, I can still
see the pain, sometimes in her hollow cheekbones,
frail shoulders and in every sad smile on seeing
a little boy.
The summer that was supposed to fill
my mother with cacophony of newborn cries
and shouts, only brought sadistic tune of death,
that summer I’m sure my mother must have
counted all her sins for the fate she received
and even though my mother still prays to God
every day, I doubt if she never hated Him, that
summer she must have rocked the little cot,
she still preserves like her precious, back and forth,
her mind racing likewise to every “what if”s,
my father still praises her of being a strong woman,
she never cried except for that one day, the doctor
entered her room with a grim face and empty hands,
my mother has raised her other kids to be good people,
she never poured her feelings to us, never shut herself
to dig into the harsh memories of that stillborn, but
I know her pain resides in her every nerves and veins,
she carries her tears at bay but not for once lets
waves overcome her, my mother is a strong woman,
30 years of that incidence and my mother still holds
onto those memories firmly, like it was only yesterday.
My mother must see him in every little boy,
from the park, she must imagine him as a 10 year old,
living next door, her body has shrunken like the raisin
in water, but that memory has still not faded, still not
covered a layer of dust because she goes down that
memory lane, every night, tugs at her hair, bites at
her shawl to keep from screaming, my mother is a strong woman,
I’ve never see her crying.

I don’t want to be a tourist,
but a traveler in your land
I want to be a wanderer
lost in the most unlikely trails
For your chaste beauty lies in
Those long abandoned grounds
Of wildly growing weeds and the
Secret tunnels you have built for
The permeation of your
Hymns and cries,
I am aware that you have been haunted by
The crawling black clouds, and i
Can’t always promise to paint rainbows
In your skies or straighten your paths,
But I know that I will love
Every of your rain drops and
Sound of thunder, I will dance in your
Barren lands and climb every of your hills
Because of all the lands I have traveled,
Only yours feels closest to home.

Sometimes I don’t think myself
As a poet, but a scribbler,
Because behind every single piece of
My work, there are hundreds scrawled pages
Glasses of red wine left untouched and candles
I have lit again and again, fighting with
The Lord of darkness, because you have to write
That verse again and again, until you’re satisfied,
Until you’re proud to call yourself its creator,
But poetry isn't just penning thoughts running
In your veins, oozing as soft whispers from your lips,
It resides underneath like a constant heartbeat and
It does not stop until you get that one poem,
Until you pen down the feeling you were trying
Feverishly to put into words and when you
Finally do, the beat stops just for a moment
Enough for you to give that glint of pride,
And then the beat starts again with your fingers,
Yearning once more, to create another masterpiece,
Because poetry is not a phase, not a mere hobby,
Not a way of passing time, but it is a norm, a habit
A tradition that you follow so religiously because
You believe in it, for you can actually feel the poem
When it sits with you in a room.

I am a war zone, with no need of
Peace keeping force, for I am obsessed
With the war my thoughts engage in,
The bullets I have dodged in my soul
With the painful litanies have made
Me a powerful warrior and I take
Pride on what I’ve molded into.
I find peace within myself,
My peace lies amidst the muffled
Screams of my heart, battered by the
Wounds.