the egg that suddenly cracks,
are the hands that shake
or the ceiling that will flake
and the bone in the break,
train lost off the tracks
relapse of the flash-backs,
soft flesh of t-bone steak,

the summer heat of ice-cream softening,
melts as quickly, internal suffering,
a gush of blood to the side of the neck,
down on his knees with hands gushing red.

you could fry an egg upon his head,
hot is the conscious of his dread,
easy are all the words that were read,
bible says, a sociopath to bleed
If you can't see pain of victims.

I dance to the method death decides,
I don't like my flesh cooked overly dried,
I love it ****** of heart and emotions tally
angel sings, dispersing sorrow and unholy
the trouble shall breed and the fire flames,
unbelievable are the lies of the guilty,
there is a truth to every crime to blame,
wild is the wind and ferocious are the seas
tantalizing is a breeze from undying trees......
If seasons can change then so can we.

The Stillness
 
It does not echo.
It does not push, or pull.
It only stretches into the yawning void.
I stare over the edge and think,
What if I went?
 
I do not want this,
But I will not go there.
I am here.
I want to BE HERE.
 
I am floating,
Hovering.
 
There are no voices in the stillness,
Telling me to come.
Telling me to go.
What to think,
What to say,
What to feel.
 
I find solace in the silence—
a...not quite peace.
It's the space between pulses
Where I am not chasing
Or being chased.
 
No demand to perform,
No mask to hold in place.
It's a hush that lets me breathe,
A little something just for me.
 
But I like it here,
Right at the edge of this void.
It's where I can just be.
And wonder,
What if I stay?
 
So I stay...
and find out.

A woman dragged to court by her hair,
on her red tide —
torn and insulted — hey you,
look at her, and wipe your tears.

Was it blood or silence that spilled over her destiny,
chained her soul to the weight,
left to pain all alone?

Her five souls stayed mute —
for whose sake?

Whose verdict was her fate?
Whose vengeance was her life?
Who takes the blame for her pain?
Whose ego made her scars?

Men chose.
Men fought.
Men gambled.

But —
who was stripped?
Who got hurt?
Who bore the injustice?

She — Draupadi —
her tears, her strength, her wisdom —
shook the whole world like a storm.

Her rage, her wounds, her curse —
set fire to Kurukshetra.

She was the fire never meant to be unlit .
She was the mind that housed the might.
She got struck by fate,
but strengthened by faith.

Her face — as beautiful as the ocean,
her eyes — shining like pearls,
her hair — like the waves;
with unfathomable strength.
Echoing her power across generations,
praising her alluring soul —
isn't this the time to unleash the Draupadi in you?

There’s an outfit for each kind of day,
one for work, and one to play.
One for silence, one for charm —
I dress to keep their peace from harm.

I match their tone, their pace, their cue,
become the me they’re walking through.
A shifting shape, a face that fits —
but never quite the one that sits.

I dress in layers not for style,
but just to wear a safer smile.
A thousand looks, a thousand designs —
but none align with what’s in mine.

And every mirror looked back at me
But none of them knew who to be
I learned to read the room so well,
I lost the voice I used to tell.

But fabric wears, and so did I,
the cost of always living shy.
I’ve worn their sizes, played their part —
let fashion hide a restless heart.
But now I pull the stitching tight —
and walk in clothes that finally fit right.

Too Late
The stage
has all but cleared.
All the souls
have gone home
for that long farewell.

No more matinees to be had;
no encore will echo
through these halls.

(silence)

The curtains,
now drawn with grace,
hang heavy
with dust and hush.
Not a single chair remains,
unforsaken.

(waiting)

Slowly decaying
listening to the
quiet hush
of the theater.

(stillness)

Too late.
The script is completed,
the final bow taken.
Only Silent echoes remain.

Do I finally trust myself enough to be happy again?
Why have I allowed this inner critic to roam free?
How do I argue with the walls it built from solitude?
What made me choose guaranteed misery over the risk of being hurt?

Now I see its need to protect me.
Give it a seat at the table, listen, it's losing influence.
Numbness, the friend that always shows up.
Yes. Risk being seen, I'm done hiding.

Dear future self,
we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?
If I had written to you ten years ago,
it wouldn’t have sounded like this.
I would’ve tried to explain who I was,
outline the path that led to you,
the way a student writes an essay—
structured, unsure, incomplete.

But you know enough now
to read between the lines,
and browse through my mistakes,
that fell like heavy rain from the sky.
I hope that the ghosts of the past
have finally been set free,
and they don’t haunt you in the midnight air
the way they are haunting me.

Did you get some of the things
I’ve spent years aching for?
Answers to the never-ending whys—
why I keep repeating patterns,
why I stay when I should leave,
why I doubt what’s already mine?
Did you find confidence
that isn’t choked by fear?
And love—
not the kind you read in stories,
but the kind that lets you heal.

I don’t expect letters
gift-wrapped remedies for the ache,
but please—
don’t think less of me
for walking through the fire
when I could’ve turned away.

I’m looking forward to meeting you.
Not for answers—
but just to see who survived.
If you’re still standing,
then maybe so am I.

Shattered illusions.
Shattered hopes.
Shattered dreams.

A house with no structure
built from the remains of ruin.

A powerful soul
in a trembling body.

A house meant to fall.
A house that realized
it’s not a house at all -
just the memory of shelter
pretending to hold.

It asks,
"Then what am I?"

But no one answers.

And so,
what’s left
sinks into the soil,
quietly turning
back into earth.