Would I date me? Why wouldn't I?
I am imperfect, clueless, weird and spry
I love my flowers on the vine,
Not in bouquets or vases which shine.

Would I date me? Why wouldn't I?
I have a fireproof heart and no roving eye.
I am loyal to truth, not to comfort or trend,
And I would rather offend than politely pretend.

Would I date me? Why wouldn't I?
It’s difficult to meet such a guy
Who will quote Rumi mid-flirt, roast your aura,
Then vanish to write about civil euphoria.

They taught us to dissect frogs,
but not the feeling of being dissected.
We memorized the bones of empires,
but no one named the fracture in our own spines.

We wake up with hearts in our throats,
trap ourselves in flickering cages,
Pout like mannequins  in group shots.
We google "how to disappear"
between lectures on resilience.
We draft essays on survival ,
while planning exits.
We smile at teachers who praise
our punctuality while we
count pills under the desk.


The counselor called us in one by one,
handed us pamphlets
with smiling cartoon brains.
Just ticked boxes
and sent us back to class
with a sticker that said “brave.”
which curled by noon.

When the windows whispered
and the knives called us by name,
they called it depression.
It wasn't.
It was syllabus.
We were just doing the homework.

A mother walks through bullets for bread
A child through shellfire for a sip of grain
Young girls bleed in corners quietly
Toddlers die in mothers' arm from thirst.

This is the plot, world is writing on,
Poets, presidents, painters even parrots
all scribbling words on rubbles and ruins.

An aid truck hums like ice cream van
drawing children to their deaths.
Graves are homes, morgues have IV drips
beeping machines mourn louder than mothers.

This is the setting, leaders are banking on.
Protestors, professors, publishers even pilgrims
all parading pain for policies and propaganda.

Camera's click as children chase compassion
Aid drops flutter like dying doves
every countable rib is a bestseller,
Prime time feeds on man-made famine.

This is the ******, audience is locked on
Photographers, producers, preachers even podcasters
all packaging pain for premieres and praise.

This is the modern-day Macbeth where power demands
we slit our conscience to wear crowns.
Guilt is a graveyard and every prophecy is screaming
from scorched soil to sear our souls.

Brave bought a horse at noon,
it neighed like freedom,
strong and strange under sun.
Brave and the Beauty were to elope
into a better "maybe".

They had to cross a river
as lovers sometimes do.
Steed’s owner had warned,
‘Its mother feared rivers.
This one might too.’”

He looked at the horse. Then the river.
Then at his Beauty
Her dress catching wind like a future.

"If she flees tonight, will her daughter
dream of rivers too?
Is love a way out,
or something passed through?"

The river shimmered like doubt.
The horse pawed at the ground
He said-'return' and she fled.

He sat down and drank
the entire river in sips.
The steed flinched
trained on whips.

Some love stories are fire, some are storm,
and some just timid and stupid.

He stapled his shadow to the stars,
And stitched his dreams and scars
To the sky.

He buried his voice in the clouds
then taught the mourning shrouds
how to cry.

They were climbing stairs—she and her brother,
bags rustling with homework and hunger.
A man on first floor leaned on the rail,
with stinky eyes and a grin too stale.
He said something foreign—they did not reply,
just quickened their steps, tried to pass by.

He quickened his steps. Her brother ran faster
Fumbled with keys then vanished altogether.
She stayed one stair behind, heart in a chase.
the stairwell became a trap, with no route to escape.
she let out a scream, but the building stood deaf.
Each wall a witness to this muted theft.

His sinister hands reached for her uniform skirt,
Lifted it and then her, pressed tight to his shirt.
She wriggled and fought till his grip came apart,
he dropped her but reached again to restart.

She lunged from the floor and caught his hand in her teeth.
bit down through the filth that festered beneath.
His howl split the air, and his hand dripped red.
he cursed, threw slurs, then stumbled and fled.

She gathered herself and got back home -to safety.
But all she got was dismissal, silences and scrutiny.

His wound must have healed by now- decades later,
But hers remains painful and fresh-probably forever.

A velvet-heavy, honey-spiced cake
sat on a table spread vast.
soft enough for fingers to disappear into,
dense enough to still
even the most restless tongues.
Its candles flickered like stars.

No one asked who baked it.
No one wondered how long the oven stayed warm.
They just took— with knives that glinted like treaties,
with fingers that didn’t wait for plates.

Frosting smeared like territory lines,
plums dug out and hoarded,
their hands sticky with inheritance.

Someone wanted the cherry—
another, the coast of caramel.

Of course, they sang Happy Humanity to us,
clinking forks like medals,
smiling with mouths still full,
declaring the feast a triumph
without once glancing at the crumbs beneath the table.

The table itself is now a battlefield
of crusts and claims.
And the last slice sits on the chipped porcelain.