Indifference is the greatest emotion of all.

Apathy,
an acquired skill,

denial,
the key to survival. ​

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

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!

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 ...

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.

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.

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.

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 ...

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

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...

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.

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.

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

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 ...

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.

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.

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.

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.

What is love without trust,
I wondered throughout the day, as I heard
the sound of my heart quietening;

the frost which had begun
to melt, made its way back
through broken heart beats.

What is love without trust,
I asked you, but silence rushed by,
amidst heavy breaths, and


we pretended, yet again,
on the edges of normalcy.

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...!

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.

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

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.

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

I slept
listening to the sound
of your rhythmic breaths,

and your snores,
my customized lullaby.