जगात एकटेच येता,
जगातून एकटेच जाता,
मग आयुष्यात तुम्ही कोणावर
कशाला अवलंबून राहता?

इथं कोणीच नसतं कोणाचं,
"तो आहे माझा..." असं फक्त म्हणायचं,
मदतीला मात्र कोणीही येत नाही,
सगळे बघतात फक्त आपल्याच फायद्याचं.

जग आहे अतिशय वाईट,
सगळेच म्हणतात "नो मोअर फाईट",
मग समोर येतात वाईट बातम्या –
"... वॉस किल्ड लास्ट नाईट."

बायकांना दिला जातो त्रास,
लोकांना मारणं समजलं जातं खास,
कधी वाटतं संपून जावं सगळं,
थांबून जावा एकसाथ सगळ्यांचा श्वास.

I’m at a stand-still with you.

You ask for my advice.
I give it.

You don’t like it.
I offer something different.

Not good enough.
Then figure it out yourself.

I need your help.
Then I need you to accept it.

I paddle this verbal boat forward.
And you paddle it back.

We’re not really going anywhere.
Just making a splash.

Pulling away, leaving behind
the memories, the love, the warmth, my mind

Picking up speed, escaping the past
the worries, the pain, the anguish, outcast

Accelerating, visions are beginning to blur
inside, screaming, twisting, longing for her

Speeding, the machine, vibrating it shakes
it might just be me, do I have what it takes

Fighting to hold on, I am hitting the bend
excitement, release, approaching the end

Sliding, screaching, tyres trying to hold
an instant of noise, pain, it's getting so cold

No longer the senses, no sight, smell or touch
although floating away, I remember so much

will I find her again, will she recognise me
did I do the right thing, will I finally be free

People look to me to solve their problems
Fix their lives, make everything okay
But what if I myself am a puzzle
An unsolvable equation
Then who gets to fix me?

rooftops are where you forgot about me.
you were up so high—
you didn't think to look down at my face.
while you were on rooftops,
i was kneeling on the ground,
wondering when you'd return.
but you simply glanced over the precipice,
knowing full well, that
you were never coming back.

A Poem is a Soul

Give them a voice
For they all want to hear
But I could only fear
What if the voice is not fair
Then the voice will vanish
Vanish to thin air
Let it crumble
For those who hear
Let them hear
For they have ears

The voice is my Poem
Don't let it fall
Because your view is all
Let your expectations be tall
Read and learn
So that I can earn
If my hardwork is not enough
What does it make it then?

A voice for a lawyer is words
For a doctor is knowledge
For the people is a story
But for a writer is a Soul
A drop of an ink
His what make a soul sink
For a reader to feel the link
Don't make my sadness leak
Take my voice to the farthest seas

I want to be heard
So I could see many heads
I don't want fame
I just want to make a name
They ask me what trigger a writer
It is a story
That which they live in
And that which I am living in

In my story
They gave me silence  
When I begged for sound
They gave me crumbs  
When I was bleeding for bread  
So I learned to write  
With the ink of my own suffering
Now they all listen
Now they all want a poem

I will show you a poem
A Poem that is me
For the voice is me
And I will let it be
A voice is not something we see
But something we feel
A Poem is a sea
As deep as a eye can't see

They say am wasting
But my time is waiting
A day I will show them
That I am winning
I will be living
They will be seeing
For I am the sky
That show where their regret lies

When nature's inhalation
whips up storms,
  We are set in stone monoliths.

Carefully carved intricate marks
decorate our walls; unfinished
since we must finish etching them
   Together.

Heed lightning cracks its
own violent tremor into
   Our stone walls.

Still! Winds will tear and maul
rains will erupt and slaughter
then give way to bright sky
   and deadly clear horizons;

reflecting back to us
our own trailing ripple
   of increasingly clear syllables.

Each etched now in our walls.
Mother printed the first
symbol, a delicate addition
first of many, now forming
sprawling racing lines.
Strung together, from the
    inside.

And the monoliths stand tall
and we bare storm
   and choose together.

There are shadows
that don’t need light to exist.

They find me
in the stillness—
no footsteps,
just the pressure of presence.

A sharpness,
like something once broken
still echoing through the body.

The pain isn’t always real.
But it’s always there.

Ghost fingers,
tight around the heart.
Scars that never bled.
Memories I never chose to keep.

I don’t speak of it.
Not because I can’t.
Because I don’t know how to name
what has no face.

But somewhere,
between each phantom ache
and the silence that follows,
a flicker stirs—
thin, but alive.

And I follow it.
Even if I don’t know where it leads.

Emotions on paper,                                                           ­                                 letting  it all out                                                          ­                                   Just  like a falling tear,                                                            ­                                  it's quieter than a shout                                                            ­       Raining  and raging,                                                          ­                        get  out of my head                                                             ­                                    There  is no caging,                                                          ­                                    this hunger needs fed                                                              ­                     Freeing and cleansing,                                                       ­                              washing it all away                                                             ­                              This is never ending,                                                          ­                                    a ritual I do every day                                                              ­                   Scribbling  in pencil,                                                          ­                           I'm  pressured to get it out                                                              ­           I know it's only mental,                                                          ­                        but quieter than a shout