Roll over and hug

I contemplate a few things

amongst the same





at the edge of bed when world is sleeping it all seems possible,

all the while when tears roll we wish for them to be hidden

and also to be seen,

I notice the pain i inflict before giving it,

and feel judged for what can be taken by me

or given back,

the halt of emotions always bring perspective to its basic sense,

rolling over puts the heart to rest,

falling from bed deters the attention to pain,

but I don’t die that way,

I roll over to the opposite side,

and the veins rush to be with the familiar touch and I determined to be away.

Words and Emotions

We are kind to each other

between words and emotions

Words emotions always loose

I lock the door of bathroom

for few minutes of silence

to recollect what words tried to take away

and emotions offered

that is a chance to words

Re-painting multiple blurs

of a phrase

I reconvene to sorrow, then to kindness again

chasing the knobs I find

no safety in life,

mouths and doors

give or take

I have to doubt myself for truth to start killing me again

till then I take the chance

and open the door

to walk into the room


I am free

from my own mind.

Cat and a story

yet again-
i never understood how a cat scratches its way up the tree
whats in those nails that i lack
an expectation
and the reason i had carried it
as myself
or to live wrong in a story
every bark i had fallen from
was seemingly a grounded tree
heights viewing me
steeping me back from as far as i climb
time spending itself
natures pulling its way
to slide me down
this i can do
fall off deep
and not mourn the cat
from the young to old
how obvious can the message be
parked and moving
in a journey to nowhere.

The revered God of odds

I don’t know why I keep coming back and reading this one, maybe because it makes me feel both oblivious and related to the pains of past. 🙂


This is a call to create me because I don’t exist

and seeing my life I think I may be the one

who walks past the dreams and desires

skillfully in a bliss remembering the odds on how these existed without the pain

but then I am proved right soon

leading me to think I created them

but if history of people would talk they would have the same walk

still I am blamed not to live through it with patience

and patience they say some don’t realise they already have it as a character

while those who don’t are often seen demanding it

I am familiar with this cycle

but I am in the odd

with about everything

and the slipping society

who will soon think of me

as a non conformist

and while they don’t know what they are conforming to

I have to mix in a haste

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Unrequited Love

So many of us make it a task to not fail, but at all wrong places and for all wrong reasons, reasons that we may not even recognise, reasons that are so deeply rooted that we have no idea what we are doing thinking it is love or the person we want is the only one for us. STOP. PAUSE. Love again if you want but STOP with that person. It is almost an obsession which doesn’t bring any output. This poem captures the essence of that feeling when your love is not being recognised or respected.

I cannot turn me
without turning to you.
you know
how far you go,
In a distance that time breaks
turning my darkness
to grey,
you are my light.

But I can only burn me,
all the while
that it is alright.

A day is but a day,
that must become night,
whether it wills it,
Or not
and the sun must burn
the lotuses must wake,
And among it all,
The earth,
each moment will have to take a call
and love unrequited,
doesn’t have to endure it all..



It is a dirty case of cleaned glasses
aged with the eyes which saw through
to see dust sitting on the window
where crows were cawing until the flesh loosens
and legs spread
we come down to heights
philosophy lost to the likes
surrendering to monotony of mutual rights.

the air comes between us and space
when we recreate ourselves
and our rusty past
it shakes the distance
we covered to last
we create from sun and feed it to moon
our dreams to our youth
once more lot of ground to cover
lot to ignore
glassened hardened fastened
our eyes to our shattered core.

Mirror Meditates

Through the broken glass of a shaken house
paradigms shift to let in the light
when and how much
too hard to decide

reflecting in the angle it was set in
traversing the light
shining on things as they were thrown
Mirror Meditates
to change angles.

shadowed on
horizons of reflection
it’s a straight image
hiding the streets
vision fails to intrude.

I sit and call for purpose in pain
confidence in vain
and wisdom in shame
light strives to direct reflection
I get back
whatever I ask for
it doesn’t go sideways
there are few things I would rather not say
it’s my own mirror
it ignores my ways.

changes in surface
go on to imbibe
what kind of darkness it is
I have to decide
under spell of my own ways
expand out
look inside
I change my mirror
Cant change my sight.

Common Single Disease

I kill the cradle
and ancestors of the wild being in me
call me to end an era
of everything
with wilderness humanity will go
without desire the senses
with numbers the age
without sound your name
with death the pain
the dents of history will call for
another life to suffer
I will again rush to offer
another death in another life
another wisdom in another knife
another love in another life
wheel reinvents itself
and history is new
past kills itself
in between the time gasps
present perfect is continuous till
infinity dies again to be renewed.
You are my infinity
will you die early or slow?
rotting or in a blow?
will you kill me before slowing down?
or slow down to kill?
And then when your cradle kills me
my ancestors will call
the numerous me
and the numerous them
we will kill the misery of repeating history
mellow ourselves down
leaves will hustle
we will ignore the infinity in us
and will die in peace
cured in death of
a common single disease.


I always feel
I always go numb
on how these men
see my parts apart

the bulging breasts
the luscious thighs
the arse high

and then I bathe
my body is not conscious
no eyes that roam

top to bottom
bottom to top
bosom to hips
vagina to lips
men know what they want
the body feels their hunger on

parts of it don’t feel home
eyes roam
dissect me part by part
I breathe in
breathe out
breathe in
breathe out
life bursts
and all goes down

bubbles of my body
and graves of men
death asks me to tell them apart
who to choose
who to spare
as if skeletons care.


I know people
and they tell
they know me
this time it will be different
my grave will not be lonely
they will bring me
flowers and love
decide if I am rotten enough
kiss me or bid me luck.

I will know soon if
a new message I will have to inscribe
one more grave then
to kill and hide
there is blood on my lips
and dirt on the hands
again the silent trance
and hunger pangs
punch me
to vomit it all out
I have again eaten
my insides out.

Each time I dig a new grave
and fill new crowd
bodies on bodies
crying out loud
warned to lie still
sometimes they wriggle
trying to climb uphill
they hold my spine tight
and try to break me
to be their light
and I gasp for air
to loose this sight
their versions I keep
but I let them slide
every new man
pulls me down
questions ways of my heart
on me he frowns.

And You
I have seen you before
when gardens were lush green
you were like a purpose
that has dreams
while I try to see you differently
you come using the same means
you don’t know how you bring
the same scenes
of us
drinking the blood
being both hungry
and half filled
the continuously rekindling love
in unkindled will
I cannot help but still hear
in this closeness
the echo of dead screams
going in same vicious circles
of flowers and rings.

When It’s ❤️

I apologise for being different,
or all the more same,
he calls me something,
I have to respond,
when in love, that’s my name,

sirens chant the same,
play the game,
of being known,
honey, dear, a dame,

sweet pains,
a dove kills a dove, such games,
red always feels alive,
I think cocks fight the real fight,
I relate to their plight,

when sky is clouded,
mind lovely and talks with haste,
dying to be free,
again freedom lovingly put at stake,
those who have been tied know it well,
what it takes,
in matters of heart,
to save the dove,
and also to kill
to not turn into a dove at will,

still when he calls,
I turn to play the game,
become his honey, his dear, his dame,
he says I love you,
I say, Yes here is the cane!
If it’s love the history is same.

Deep cuts

How deep do you cut without bleeding
and I will call it art
your crimson feathers and stark lurking breath match
the width of blade
which you promised last time you
wont use

what is it you inflict on me for the pain to pass
a whiplash
or the same sweet dread
after red gives you away
and crimson scars turn you beautiful again

My blade
I protect you

and when you convince me of your cowardice
I know you pretend
to be brave
for these nutshells of mines
that you spread across
are just my pilgrims to your sacred heart
so I will reach your shrine to wake you up
and for that moment
that will be the first
and last thing I do for you
and turn to dust
that is all I can take
to make you brave
I can become a scar
the best one for your heart
and you can wear me
pretend like its art.

Let Me Write.

I have to compose something quickly
before hell breaks loose
and urgency of my heavens touch the incarcerated souls
to not burn them again
I have to write
the reminders in time
and adjust the velocity of feelings
each time to a faster pace
and further the gaze
so that the character adjusts the amount of futile references it can make
so as to not smother them and itself
I have to make space
and compose quickly but still not in haste
the metamorphosis renders my incapable past, I suggest myself to last
with the wisdom of gaze that I inculcate
I have to write
so as to not forget
these fillers of past
and metamorphosis of haste
I have to write
the moments of truth
willingness of heart
through my – this ignorant art
to see how my words taste
in your mouth like
the countless things you say
I have to write
allow me if I may.


severe cold of the shutting lungs

scoff for the warm ice cream

mellowing the combustion of cold

shields stay up. lungs fight

of the momentary disguise

in which the cold plays

the warmth of haste 

and sends chills

of the developing taste 

sniffs are the signals

when I go around 

I think I am changing 

but I just change the crowd. 

The Drift.

and she looked at me
in the way I wanted it to be
but it was late
and, I, had places to be
could it fall so fast?
that, which was meant to last
could it be more clear?
my, this face, with your smear
you had said
that it was meant to be
and I said you knew my name
but, then, when you called
I didn’t respond
because it was late
we called it fate
but, what was all that
before all this
when we had time
to sit, define
then again
you had looked at me
in a way it wasn’t meant to be
and when it was not late
we still called it fate

whenever, the tides turned
they never favored
how we moved
and, we always looked backwards
to this drift
from the start
just why had you said
that it was meant to last.


Because people give up by now,
wiping off the mopped floor, squeaky clean,
marble white,
I reflect.
Painted the windows white, walls red,
no bloody stains here.

Furniture is white,
dining table round and of pine,
this is where I dine,

they say 1 day at a time.

Because people give up by now,
cleaning brownish-blackish gunk on the stove,
over flown, forgotten, I scrub, clean it bright,
I cook,
I surprise.

Because people give up by now,
killing, poisoning, stumping on other roaches.
In corners quietly they repair who pretended to die,
I put my makeup,
got few more lives to live.

A rusty old watch I clean, memories creep,
speak, have you forgotten me, I am low.
This time I don’t pack it back.
I let it hang, in my sight, with a lighter mind,

they say 1 step at a time.

Because people give up by now,
pretending to be cursed,
pretend what you may.
In plain sight, I have let it go.
They are they and I am me.

1 day at a time,
1 step at a time,
1 life at a time.
Because, most people give up by now.

Black Box

I was looking at you through the black box

thought that was all everyone ever wanted

                     to not be related to their own hands

infinity, then an undone task 

of 1000 possible futures 

relates me to the nonexistent you

and I look at you through the black box 

and my shining eyes 

reflect all white

like when lies

work around for long

feel like they belong

                      and in the potholes cultures cursed 

the saint 

who did not listen

and didn’t let a scum die

there were still a few things 


for both to try. 


What would you sit there and wonder

let me tell you

love fear hate derision pretense 

all were true

it was best to not wonder more

so we did not

but if you sit and I cross your mind

know you cross me too

now when we swim across 

to more oceans 

and different lands

if you find me in another 

find me then for her 

and you will find me for me

I will till then try to loose you

and un-clinch my fingers

grappling your version with me

hoping that you find 

the same unsettling love

which settled in me

and then maybe you will see everything left behind 

was same and more

but now lost 

on the edge of our past. 

The melancholy of wisdom

I caress her in the dark

as touch magnifies my presence

she lays peaceful

reaching ignorance of her heart

that doesn’t absorb the light when made aware

wisdom is not so absolute

as the ignorance complete in itself

this melancholy of opposites biases to 

everything which knowledge can’t impart

wisemen solving riddles that didn’t exist in the dark

and in a light way 

she goes along the not so wise path

bearing the weight of knowing 

that wisdom is only as reasonable as all thoughts combined

but not wise enough

to create things that unreasonability could define. 

A Hymn

transfixed by the moon
in the finished glare
come.            stare.

do you know what it is?
pain engulfed in love

free. incorrigible. beyond repair.

My solitude in the gloom
where your single flower bloomed
the inane incantations
always worked to incapacitate

my moth,
that never did recuperate

             how did he swallow himself?

he poured the tea
while uncurling her hair

with verity on the verge
but never gone
the idolatry pretense
got carried on

and she kept choking
in his fresh blood
the moth
kept the light stuck

brightness is a scanty measure
for the dark
like when a sanguine offers
a sardonic heart

both sit to satiate the salvage
the burning light
that sought solace
and the carnal moth,
a caustic case.

V for venom

Do you know you can drink your tears backwards into your mouth through practice 

you can cry inside but I never got to know how long it takes to go back and unfix the fixes of haste in my 

mind talks of the adjustments it did not make while I thought it did, when the blood spilled 

it gave away the heart which I thought won in the middle of everything, it failed

to show me that it could never repair its storage of those backward tears, it gulped

the blood instead and now can’t vomit because    spilling words was an old habit, now fixed, hindering

the outward flow of almost any emotion in an effort to keep those tears from flowing forward, 

walking in circles of pain and love the boundaries merged and neither could identify the other admist its own venom 

the cobra bit itself it died not being sure if the venom killed it or not loving itself. 


A sweet story 

travels its own reminiscence 

as how it was told 

in times of plenty 

when the dwelling pond didn’t dry up 

in the times passed filling it again

the little creatures of all forms

lived in the suspense 

of failure or success

thomping on weak ones

burying them through distress

for urgency to be whole

that was why the story 

was not sweet when retold

a lot of sweet bits 

in its reminiscence

did not hold. 

Meme evenings

neural efficacy it dictates

carving replicating transcending 

subatomic space of the peripherals where

it was killed, alive again 

dusted by hands of now a celibate brain

niching into the broken links

of surviving neurons 

to expose hide reside in a scarred alley

trying to invade again 

breaking open the bubbled spaces

you. yet again a meme of everything perfect

I. an uninspired host

Valentines Special

It is a dress

you wrap your fun 

and bring it down

it sits on the curb

and you are skeptic 

you see a clown

in the middle of nowhere

it has been a while

you turn around 

another year futile

but you like the sound

as the rats who died 

looking for cheese

were as gullible 

as those who didn’t

and when chasing their trail

cheese followed with the cage

how a lost love 

makes a comeback case

the hungry rats again miss the details

another year to yearn

for the ship that always sails..


I am painting you a picture 

on the canvas of your eyes 

what you see is relative

and depends on your insight

like when night tells dawn

I am too a morning to few life forms

they who can see will change their colours 

those who saw black and white

still how do you rush when you are viscous

and how do you flow when you are rigid

but you will and think about the 

underperformance of everything else 

inside all of us we ourselves dwell. 

this way The mundane project of me

keeps getting more and more pointless

in my own stoic face I am baseless

the vision that I will anyways create

amass project reiterate 

is just a changing proposal of my past

when digged to the core of anything

everything lasts. 
Thought: most changes are selfpreservatory  in nature without our realizing it and even if we do realize that we need the change, we also crave for an acceptance of our negatives or worse we stop caring. How legit is the change then? sometimes us ourselves being unaware of the real depth of it. 

Until the batteries die

Fake respect of fear 

evades into the 

time which runs on clock 


battery dies

of the charge person 

has in life 

after that 

character of memory


and love 

no matter how strong 

loses its will 

in losses

and in fear of loosing

a lost love

and everything familiar

life continues

in that time

that runs on that clock

until the battery dies. 

Moon and its sunlight

In depths of ocean everything reflects

on the sun recieved

while it was summer 

and the haste of sunlight 

when didn’t  fill the floor 

of winter’s ocean 

the moon still stayed in dark 

not knowing that the reflection is giving it away

through what the vacuum brought

of the space 

while water didn’t grasp the velocity

of vacuum to fill spaces

the fish stayed flowing at the bottom

waiting for winter to end

on the other hand 

moon in black vacuum 

couldn’t grasp the kind of warmth it sends.

Fickle life of grandma & noor

I would have written better at the time

when you used to churn ghee out of the malai collected by me

but that thought was lost before I could write.

It was constant process but

then, mother changed the method and she instead made curd out of it

she would churn the curd for butter and chaas

with that your hands too changed from firm to soft

in the process whole house evolved

malai was now a distant thought.


But reference of it almost never died

turned into a skilled fight

although with malai a lot of stereotypes dissolved

but somehow ones with curd evolved

for house was her commodity now

where her life would revolve.


Noor, you should know how to claim what’s yours

but why, if it’s truly mine

it’s not about the curd or malai, she would say

it’s more

it’s always more

good books have rubbed your innate core


why didn’t you tell her – said Noor

sometimes Noor you will have to ignore

ghee can be made out of butter too all the more

because to know is not good for her

but for you it will help you take your path

everything fickle is not always lost

what’s important is to let go

as life’s only hope is change

and our will to live up to its game.






Malai – Fat layer on milk after its boiled

Ghee – clarified butter

Chaas – buttermilk



Eternally long

I know you don’t look at me that way

like I came out of stars and glided my way right next to you

or the way in which the crowd dispersed to send you my way 

on that empty road 

where no one would have been concerned by another 

we found solace away in the corners

in the pitch dark where we got old 

only to find that age didn’t exist in the time spent 

awaiting the young feelings of love 

and while we mustered hard to keep that will alive of the past 

but it flew with years spent trying hard

In the hundreds of previews of life 

we found the one which we never sought

this thought of being without each other now 

and all that we have lost

admist finding ourselves again via the ways of complex emotions

I reach out to be with you but not in the same way

that I looked at you before 

it is different and flawed 

just how life would like it

and love would abhorr

 I look at you through our damage score

and while beauty lies in eyes of beholder

I find mine tired of not looking beautiful in your eyes

in this striving the pulse changes the way hearts beat

racing veins at your sight, now cease 

to be simple

because complex is long gone 

in the severity of other thoughts 

giddiness didn’t belong

while we both look at each other the same way

it’s not that way 

when the whole cosmos belonged

to be with us 

and when it was supposed to be eternal long.

Too much

I know he will not come

because he didn’t leave me in winter

he left me in summer

under the sun

without haste

he buried me

in the flowers

through the wrapped gifts

knowing that when

decay comes

he will have ample

to his credit

in that build up of merits

I missed only one detail

too much of anything

always does fail.


In the multitude truths

mine was a speck of my story

intertwined with your perspective of it

hindering me to visualise how it actually happened

I end up not being so sure about my own past

while the disaster in my head dances on my failure to claim 

my own pain because I always compare it to yours

while infliction of it – you think is my choice 

but you do it yourself without knowing

that is why good hearts are streaked with confusion

and those with noise are always sure.

Destiny’s bride

Rock and roll was hectic and 

the songs of solitude were singing homeless souls

the vulnerable priest crying and 

virgins finishing their goals

coffins caught up with the deadbeat lives

life chalking trials for destinys wife

fate doesn’t succumb to the ill-fated while

another task to do with a smile

meanwhile the chorus shunned all background sounds

cords struck around the neck 

on the surround speaker ofcourse

righteous shouted on the songs course

singing away the destinys bride

women waiting to finish their misguided life.

Face to keep

I hear you my girl

like the silence that screeches 

through the skies 

in hope of your noise

to be loud

I hear you my girl

in our silos we all are proud.

but I will ignore you my love

because you are not my life

some other day when I will be you

I will squeeze this pain out of you

and I will then pay the price

of not being by your side.

To the women I see fighting daily but don’t help because of so many fears. Fear of my immediate family, fear of being judged myself, fear of their own future. 


what if love was primal 

not this flowery state of mind 

I heard the cats and dogs whisper

they too felt the need to define

but they were soon disinterested in the thought

like their primal fits 

it was short

but a man kept bugging the concept

created content 

published the stress

the first love musters me

makes me mushy weak in my knees

I cripple the senses

fuse the bulbs and 

muse the nulls

in expectations of that first look

into the souls

I keep baring mine

gathering my own flames I wander

island to island

and everything opens up for me to define

the beauty rises 

with the sunsets

where a smile to myself

alone staring at the beds

of anywhere I would go

I can imagine of so many women I know

but I dont

just smiling at myself for that special one 

faith in heart 

I await the one

she enters into my dreams 

through the yellow cab 

wandering alone 

I pause to gasp

how do they behold these moments of truth?

how do they stare pretending not to look?

I am unaware of shame 

and in being lame

I just walk behind her

not looking like a trailing dog

shying seeing changing lanes

I follow her like insane

she pauses


tweaks her head 

30 degree to right

what else is love at first sight?

if the godesses in temples could walk

would they stay

such beauty should belong to one

I would pray

she would not belong

longing for her worshippers

she would be gone

another morning 

I would say other names

some were dedicated to ease my pain

some were looking to make their gains

some were plain ugly 

some were profoundly insane

some were like me 

soul searching their own nemesis name

but the search made me figure this out 

that we all are primal 

in one or other way 

some in our searches

and some in our need to stay.

Old and Content

Don’t ask me for courage

I dropped it in the nutshell of peace

The wolves hunted my bravery

My women was put to leash

The girls who giggled at wake of puberty

Silenced themselves in the hook ups of past

The men who surfaced

Went mad trying to make them last

Hunted were hunters and they did the same

Each relentlessly becoming insane

When there is no path that you can lay

All paths eventually lead astray

Always a flag on horizon 

For which they would ride

People told me to go there to hide

I reached there 

And came back to save my sight 

Blisters of my journey still wake me up in the nights

I smile when Old and Content

Means to have paid all the price.


How do you speak to beauty?

How long you bask in its while?

How long do you bother?

by how it ties through its golden threads of warmth 

it knits me in a cocoon 

where I am left to think that nothing will evolve

the stage will cease to honor the actor 

and the play would never complete

because I won’t let it

in the moments that I gasp

out of you

my own breath belittles me

on syncing with you

there is no butterfly when I it open up

the enchantment always completes itself

when love goes full circle

all works well only when 

I remain enchanted

and think that the cocoon is my life.

Oh Master

Oh master! I look up to you 

not into you

with my love 

It is true

and yet you fail me 

and my surrender

saying its not complete

Oh master! looking into you 

was not wise

it would have let 

to same demise

Oh master! I just wish 

to make you wise

let it be the peripheral love

for a peek inside told me

you, like me, 

are a lot of beautiful and ugly bees 

within your soft beehive

and I don’t want to become that small

to enter 

and grow inside you 

then to break the softness

and let the stings out

to free myself

nor I want you to kill me

because of the pain

it is to accommodate another person

accept please as I said

I look up to you

not into you.

The plague of tough words

I minutely look at a poem

study it word to word 

I dont understand!

tough words

I pick up a dictionary 

and find the words 

relate the meaning and

construct a sentence

I forget what I was reading

and meaning is again gone

I read the line again

I get it now

by this time my grammar has improved

but the flow is gone

and I find the meanings impractical

or rather I found it nonsense

to go into poetry

with the words I didn’t felt

I wonder if great poets loved themselves

Or they just loved to plague poetry like everything else.

How was I wrong?

No you don’t say

That you have been hurt

For hurt is your conception 

Of my actions 

Which you defined

By the conditioning you already had

But my conditioning had a different name 

And hence now you don’t believe my actions 

And I mutter about the insensitivity

Of your extreme sensitiveness

Which sensitizes only your senses

For yourself

Not for me

But you say I was wrong

Tell me how was I wrong?

Then again

Lost in yourself

You would not have an answer.