i try to see
the bright side
every day,

but deep down,
i’m scared—

my nerves
frayed,
worn thin
like overused threads.

i spent years
simply surviving,

keeping my head low,
waiting
for the right timing

to make it out
unscathed.

but cuts
and scrapes
still touch the surface,

and the light
inside my heart
flickers—
on repeat.

i know
what it’s like
to feel something,

but life
isn’t fair,

and the pain
i bear
makes me question:

will i remain
broken forever?

or will i
break free
from this cycle—

free from
the fear—

and like a phoenix,
take flight,
rise from the ashes,

and finally
fix my broken heart?

Ode to the Stream that sits stagnant
somewhere over Northgate Green:

I have sat by it and observed
Rippled currents falling down
Into murky shallows, an un-natural
Green, like mountain-dew
Breathing frothy spots of bubbles
That circle a rhubarb vape
And a sprite can and a
Heineken can and a
Little hopping Wren darting
Between curled roots.

I remember too,
The drips of
Rain water
Worming
Down the dingy
Alleyways of
My childhood,
Dripping down
Nettles and
Seeping into
Cracked brick and
Sodden dirt
And part of - now a -
Sordid cigarette packet.

And from some
Geography class,
I remember how
This water was
Reborn, once
In massive clouds,
Grumbling masses,
Sky's mother who
Shadows the

Bursting
Writhing
Violent
Rivers
And
Vast Fjords
And
Reaching Peaks
And
Breaching Skys
And
Once
Birthed
As torrent
Rainfall
Tearing
Massive wounds
Into tectonic
Plates

The
Blood of matter
And organism
And that which
Carries our ****
In every form

But that's not all. As, I recall:
The lifting motion of staring
Into 'etched lines of water'
From rain, tracing bulbous
Recollections on opaque glass
And knowing they don't
Know where they are going
And I bask in the significance of
This insignificance.

I asked my better halves
how they desire to lie,
once their hearts stop beating,
and breath bids a last goodbye.

Whether they want the stars to
sculpt their constellation, or
the wind to whisper their
cacophonic tales.
Whether they want the earth
to devour their cadaver, or
the skies to weep and
wash away their existence.

The guitarist stated he'll despise grief
as his memories are being relived,
of who he was and who he remains,
as his guitar sleeps in the arms of its heir.

And maybe, the perished strings of an old guitar
don't have to be mourned over,
but applauded for the melodies
that once kindled a ripple of delight.

My dearest across the border
wishes to be nestled beside a mosque
to be enwreathed by The Divine
and lullabied by the Azaan.

And maybe, the eternal slumber is a charade,
and the past still echoes
within the mute boughs or
streets alive with familiar voices.

My junior casts an absurd wish —
to be submerged in cocoa's caress
and be tossed to the lesbian zombies,
who hunger, not for flesh, but for a passion, so savage and insatiable.

And hence, I believe, the hilarity will haunt forever,
but so will my adoration for her,
and perhaps, the craved fervour will
find its form in me.

Then, another writer wove it in her own syllables —
she urges to sink beneath the dismissed waves,
flicker among starlight, like undying thoughts.
She wants her bones to dissolve, ink for Gods,
and her heart to rest beneath a willow.

She wishes to slip into silence,
like laughter scattered over dreamy vinyl,
breath scattered over moonlit stars,
and a page torn mid-sentence.

And lastly, if you enquire of me,
I wish my corpse to be a legacy beyond self
and be gifted to time and science.

But if coerced to be cremated,
I wish to reincarnate as a litchi tree.
With my arms extended in a welcoming warmth,
I will embrace the excluded,
my shadow will shelter the weary,
and my fruits will sate the starving.

All of which I was never offered
in the frigidity of my bloodline,
but was abundantly endowed with,
in the refuge of my closest mates.

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.

Falling leaves in autumn,
Washing all the sins away.
Crushed under the feet’s rhythm,
Mixing with the soil and clay.

Washing all the sins away,
Headed to fresh new start.
Mixing with the soil and clay,
Fixing the broken heart.

Headed to fresh new start,
Blooming flowers in spring.
Fixing the broken heart,
Like melodies from violin’s string.

Blooming flowers in spring—
Gave me a fresh new start.
Like melodies from violin’s string,
Solace that flowers bring to my heart.