"Women like you!" - he spat.
And in those three words,
flowed the venom which drowned
everything else. ..

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

I wonder
if I am (still)

the distant roar
that travels shyly
past your ears

while you sleep.

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!

My eyes
make love to you
in stormy nights

while you sleep.

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

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 ...

I slept
listening to the sound
of your rhythmic breaths,

and your snores,
my customized lullaby.

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.

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

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.

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.

When appearing dense becomes
the fashion status, and highlighting
on certain aspects just seem
to lose its light,

elaboration becomes just another
phenomenon,  yet another phrase,
another courtesy which I no longer
feel to follow through.

And when words have lost
their desired effect after
what seems like a lifetime
of deceitful lies being unveiled,

a giggle escapes unintentionally
silent, as I ponder over the
comical turn of events.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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!'

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.

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...

Indifference is the greatest emotion of all.

Apathy,
an acquired skill,

denial,
the key to survival. ​

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

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...!

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

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...

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.

I saw the tears in your smile,
the nervous tension you attempted
to mask with rapidly overlapping
words, the edge in your voice,

a resounding crash of reality trying
to bring us back from neverland...

but my ears sought your voice,
strained against the winds of time,
as each second felt like an hour,
which we hadn't lived a minute of...

and each of your various efforts
to push me away, lay scattered...

I heard the silence in your breaths,
made meaningful by the sweet
nothings you whispered next,
sliding ever so gently across my skin,

like someone poured whiskey
on a cold afternoon.

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

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 ...