I often wonder
Why do I write some days
And not on others?
Emotional turbulence
Makes me write
A sentence or two
Just to calm it
On the surface
I forget in this turmoil
Where am I actually
Hiding all the trouble
Or rather am I even doing so?
With passing days
My writing decreases
Does it signify
My pain too is vanishing?
Or am I above the stage where
I am unable to write even in pain
I wish to rest my case
With all the problems
With all fingers pointed at me
For there is nothing more
I can write
Or express!

- Nirmohi

Today the sky is lifeless,
the trees are barren,
and the world feels too quiet.
The sun is nowhere to be found,
no birds are singing,
even the wind is tired of blowing today.  
My body aches to be buried in a pile of blankets,
a warm place where no responsibilities can be found.  
Nothing sounds better than allowing my heavy lids fall shut,
forgetting about the long list of "to do's" sitting on my desk.  
Today, it has been extra hard to exist.

no where
no place
no light


it's inescapable
feet stapled, cold

fleeting breathe
stale air, dry


no ailment
no time
no life


darkest color of night
dancing dots

left with a sticky taste
a rumble of pleas

Where were u at when i just wanted to die
Where were u at when i couldn't breathe
Where were u at were u at when i was crying my eyes shut?
Where u at when i couldn't sleep because i was over thinking..
But here you are texting me at 3:am

**** Toy

Cold, clad, silicone, scraggly straggling down the street,
Twisting, bending, folding to every person they meet,
Shift its face, smile, frown, cry or moan,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,

Wrestle jovially with it till your hearts content,
Till your ego satisfied, strokes your pride,
Small stains on silicone thighs,
It bends back into shape,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
A friend to be used, whatever for,
Rolling with whatever’s in store,
It weeps alone, as it revs into a roar,

It guesses what it’s like to truly be alive,
Maybe not have to give,
But it has no bone or blood,
Manufactured, reflected social facets of false, foul virtues,

Able to spot a mask,
Complete any given task,
Its whole body is a mask, a tool,
It lives, but it is not alive,

Down a crowded street it walks alone,
End of the day draws near, hollow to the core,
White, bruised bled stains,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar,

Its lover covers it in kisses,
“This is what it’s like to be in love.”
Its words hollow and pseudo as sin,
The silicone man knows not of authentic feeling,

Only fingered lust that stains synthetic skin,
It has programmed thoughts, cares and worries,
Confident none belong to it,
“What is an ‘I’?” Wailing for identity,

Other then a doll for use,
The **** toy doesn’t see abuse,
Only utilitarian ways to be,
Excuse after excuse not to see,

In misery,
Under guise of pain and woe,
It tries to be alive, confused,
Under god towed sky,

He screeches to the heavens,
“I am I!”
The sky calls back with a clap of angry thunder,
Down an empty street it walks alone,

Alone, alone, it can not desire or condone,
Not much bothers the man of silicone,
Synthetic, eyes, mouth, fingers and ******* sore,
It weeps alone and it revs into a roar...

the dreams are forgotten quickly
no longer a source of interest
of mystery
or even sadness
they are simply accepted and left to vanquish
into the ether
the years
the words
the search for fire
in a dormant soul
the light is flickering
the voice is quieting
the vision of a kindred spirit
is all but blind hope
the poet in me
meanders alone in his thoughts
that are short and void of secrets
he no longer hears the call
no longer seeks the path
to discovering
the perfectly articulated
thought