We got lost, somewhere​.
N​ow, even the sun rays
feel​ cold over my skin,

and snow leaves
warm trails...
I am burning;

a mere residue
of your love.

Sometimes,
words are weightless
and hearts are numb.
And all the music in the world
fails to tune out everything.

Distinguishing noises
from properly thought-out
sentences becomes a task,
and drowning them all in a
cavern full of pooled out
emotions, just another hobby.

While stars dance
to a tuneless melody
in synchronized motions
to the buzzing in the heads,

we catch feelings
like fever ...

where do we find
ourselves

in museums of thoughts,
where each thread dances
on its own and our fingers,

outstretched, trying
to grab a single one...
processing.

where do we find
ourselves

perhaps,
in hidden sheds
or tangible shreds,
deemed or bound
to be doomed.

In between mid nights
washed with moon light,
I wondered then,
if sadness can be alluring.

But we are fooled,
and there's nothing left,
or at least nothing,
of importance, except

half- dreamed hallucinations
and broken wings,
while sadness lingers
upon her eye lids...

Sometimes,
Emotions take up the role
of a backseat driver
while Logic drives drunk,
ready to crash...

Of all the secrets,
you are the one
I would have exposed,
shamelessly ...

Look at me.
Defects and flaws,
I wear them as
my crown.

Gaps and distances,
and what's in between them,

innocent questions and
gruff answers, spoken offhandedly;
tones which speak volumes...

just like that
...love rekindles.

If it worked like a
twenty-four hour clock,
I would have reset
the hands of life
to one.

There was once a poet in Shanghai,
who forgot to dot each of his 'i's
and left the 't's unmarked,
so his 'm's and 'w's barked,
making him poke himself in the eye!

I harbor weeks and weeks
of overgrown ****
overfilling the secret linings
of my heart.

You think that perhaps, a word or stare,
or a ***** phrase hurled down the hem of a skirt,
can keep a woman caged and scared.

Perhaps you think too, that the only place
which suits a woman is near a musty stove,
that she should walk just along your pace.

I woe such men on their high horse,
galloping around with no remorse ...

How terrible it must be,
to hold a pen which forgets to bleed,
where inks turn transparent,
like water running down streams,
where tears form beads of sorrow,
glistening in every wake,
while the muse slumbers on,
peacefully ignorant, of the whirlwind
its absence creates...

It's funny,
this thing called love.

Yet,
it rarely makes
anyone laugh.

I was made
to serve, quiet and silent,
a living body ripped
of its tongue

where certain hellhounds
breathe down the necks
of suppressed females,
petrified, but still

unwillingly willing to please
the so-called men-gods.

I was born
in a world where opinions
and thoughts are stacked
pile upon pile, and while

my inner voices tries to
stretch itself awake sometimes,
only to be dragged back
into a drunken stupor,

but not before I see
salivating mouths, leering
...closing in upon me...

I was made human,
perhaps...

You are
the silent prayer
my subconscious heart
whispers ...in twilit hours.

I slept
listening to the sound
of your rhythmic breaths,

and your snores,
my customized lullaby.

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I pondered over your words,
silently memorizing your face,
my mind buzzed, as every possible
reason skipped around to present
a bouquet of thoughts.

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I sat down to write memoirs
but no words came,
and my pen stopped mid-air,
while letters danced...

Why do you love me, you asked,
and I wished, secretly, that
you'd asked how much I love you,
for I would have answered:
"You are my first waking thought...
that's how much I love you."

'Cause for reasons on why do I love you,
my pen seems pathetically dry. ..

I have burned the bridges
and walked on tight ropes
of meaningless hopes,

which bloom
in graveyard of thoughts;

where wanderers roam,
silent, with hollow laughs,
while nursing ...dormant hearts.

My eyes
make love to you
in stormy nights

while you sleep.

I wonder
if I am (still)

the distant roar
that travels shyly
past your ears

while you sleep.

Graffiti upon the walls,
inspirational messages
to boost up passers-by
on the side walk,
their backs bent just a little,

hunched with burdens,
and sweat which drips
down the brows, disgustingly
and dangerously close
to dribbling down the chins...

not one amongst those pay
a second glance to the other,
each caught up in their own
cycle of life, their legs fatigued,
to the point of collapsing,

and there...near the end
of the pavement, a man holds
his guitar steady, singing
at the top of his lungs, an equally
inspirationally gross song

to lift up the spirits
of weary individuals.

Assuming conclusions,
overruling consumptions,

dynamite love transformed
the dynamics of relationships,
nullifying every chance we had
of reaching a safe harbor...

in the middle of arguments,
words were washed ashore,
and we found ourselves
gazing at each other

from the opposite ends
of our defined spectrums.

Somewhere between your
timid neverminds and
my haughty nothings,

love found its way,
peeking shyly with just
a touch of awkwardness

that bursts forth at
times but not before
rendering us dumb,

if just for a moment ...

There was once a girl called Anarose,
who took selfies in a thousand pose.
Perfect pouts on the face,
turned into a rat race,
but ended up with a wrinkly nose...!

Indifference is the greatest emotion of all.

Apathy,
an acquired skill,

denial,
the key to survival. ​

When love dies young,
like a rose plucked by a curious
kid's stubby fingers, right after
it bloomed in full sight.

The poet clutches his pen, still,
in a maddening rush, scribbling
half writ songs with no endings...
the fire crackles quietly in a corner,

and even its heat is not enough
to melt the frost which envelops
the air; when words are spewed but
future seems bleak, as sand

in an hourglass slips by, waiting
to be upturned, and yet another
love dies young, while the crowd
watches in sheer indifference.

Sometimes, incredulous at
the way things take turns
at baffling us, and we're caught
by surprise, as life, which
grimaced mischievously before,

miraculously rearranges its
features; a kind hand, though
virtual, extends through the
boundaries of invisible channels,
almost touching...

and there, in those moments,
I struggle to find the right words,
relying instead on my emojis
to convey the rest...

What's real (anymore)
in a near perfect world?

The dampness of the day
overstays its welcome,
amongst snowy smiles which

fail to reach the eyes, while
pretenses are kept and reputations
saved from being tattered.


What's real (anymore)
in a near perfect world?

Closed doors which harbor
sinister beings while cursed,
mangled bodies lay oozing blood,

their stench attracts vultures
in human forms, which feed
upon the innocence lost.

The outlines of the sky curled into a smile,
the wind strummed along with the February sun.

Couples drew nearer to each other,
while love was busy adding up logistics
and dividing equations which made no sense...

equal halves, better halves, soul mates and
(in)significant others, all mashed together in one;

wiping off sweat from its brows,
love smirked.

There was once a buggered old hen,
who thought of writing with a pen.
But her nose went pink
when she drank some ink.
Gagging, she cried, 'Never again!'

Stroking strings and
feathered wings.

I read you,
and the way you
form your words,
your silence, which
lingers in the air.

What truths do you hide,
and the tricks up your sleeve
which peek stealthily past,
as you work your mind
into drunken frenzies.

Death evades me.

Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere veils,
itching for a soothing touch
upon a poet's burning soul.

And when those layers of words
upon words are unveiled,
(if one dares to)

know that underneath all
that rubble, one last hiccup
is being taken.


Not all pretty words
are lies.

Some are but mere longings
and fantasies; a kingdom
of smoke a poet builds, where
inky demons prowl and
leave footprints.

And when all that
mist is dissolved, with
naked truths dangling mid-air,

know that beyond that fallen
kingdom, a poet lies broken,
yet half - mended.


Those pretty words, the only
companion in a completely
unsimplistic world.