An ode to the one.

When you finally leave
Just tell me
And I promise, that I won’t cry.
And I promise I won’t ask you to stay for a while.
Ill wash my old bed sheets
so that they don’t smell like you anymore.
I will clean my door of your footsteps,
‎ my lips of your taste;
‎I will throw away your clothes
‎your letters
‎and make room, open my curtains
‎for the world outside.
And I’ll do everything I can to forget you.

But when someday,
my morning coffee
‎reminds me of your eyes;
‎someday when I take my medicines on time,
‎remembering your scoldings.
When someday the innocence of a child
or the Waves of an Ocean
‎thunders, or soft breeze, or the wild
‎remind me of you
‎one day when I realize
‎in my habits, I have yours too
‎my words sound like you
‎and after you I never really felt at home anywhere
‎maybe, just maybe
‎Ill long for you
‎Ill cry.


Woven letters

Woven letters

I don’t feel emotions

I weave poetries

Instead of tears

Words fall out of me.

When my heart is broken

I hold it with rhymes and syllables

I don’t write poems

They roll out of my tongue with ease.

In the waging war

Before picking up the sword

My fingers reach for ink

Before the enemy, I sing war songs.

In the face of defeat

Instead of calling out for pleads

My heart spills out my fears, courage, tribulations

By screaming poetries.

To love, I whisper

Compliments woven in free verses

I admire love, beauty, happiness, pain

With metaphors and similies

I don’t write to express

I am made of poetries.

Image from Pinterest

Hello, poet.

And now, everybody wants to become a poet.

They say, “oh, it’s mere play of words!”

No darling, words play with you.

Filthy, corrupted yet somehow

Craftfully decorated.

It’s not play,

It’s witchcraft.

It’s creation.

Anything but play.

Anything but choosing the best words and weaving into a rhyme

I’m not telling you to stop trying;

But, till the time spilling out words

Doesn’t set you free

And doesn’t become a necessity

Til the time you can’t find your pain, your agony

Hiding in them, beautifully

Till the time you don’t bleed with your words

And they don’t mar you with ecstacy

Don’t call yourself a poet.


You look like a dream to me.

So fragile, I fear you’ll

Spill like a hundred pearls

If I hold you too close

you look like a dream to me.

you look like my childhood

lost amidst the chaos until I found you
and found it again

you feel like all my beautiful childhood memories.

You look like happiness

laughing, throwing your head back, so carefree

smiling, crinkling your nose;

and even crying,

your head on my chest

letting go of all the things,

you look like happiness to me.

You feel like home

I run back to, every time

a place where I feel safe and loved and free.

You are not all the things that I had ever wanted

but all the beautiful things

I had lost

coming back to me.


I set up a table

to have a discussion

And invited everyone

Beggars, vagabonds, billionaires

Anyone who could answer my questions

I wanted to know what happiness was.

I looked up in every dictionary

every poem, song, picture

empty words filled my head

my heart filled with none

I looked around tired and empty

I looked around hollow eyes and fake Smiles

Surrounded me.

Just then, a little girl

came up to me

I asked her the same question

In her innocence she couldn’t understand

why would someone ask what is happiness?

she laughed at me innocently

And in her smile, in her laughter, I found all my answers.

A year of desperate poems.

That’s exactly what it is. So far, 2017 has been a year of surprises, realisations and a hell lot of desperate poems.

Plus, I am wayyy irregular with my blog. I am sorry sweeties ;-;

I was shuffling through my poems, and found this single decent one. ;-;

Enjoy ;-;

Of all the people in the room I’m undoubtedly the biggest admirer of life
isn’t there a beauty in everything around me;
even the way we fall
And disappear?
The way we smile in despair?
the way we talk
lies rolling out of our tongue
the way we cry;
Aren’t we pretty when we cry?
arent we mesmerizing when we try
to frantically hide in our little cages?
Aren’t scars beautiful;
and prisons wonderful
to be in?
I can never get enough of you, sadness
Ill come back misery, to admire your beauty
Will you spare me for a while if I tell you I’m just tired of everything around me?

Bad habits

You hurt me


and everytime

I let you in

and everytime

I let you touch

my bare skin

wounded flesh

and regret it


You laugh at me

and your smile

oh! Your smile

it heals me.

I take your indifference

and smile that follows

as my duty, to preserve it

You know me

too well;

so well

you know I have a

bad habit

of never giving up on you.