Everyone thinks Lyra is pretty.
Her beauty fell off her high cheekbones,
And landed onto the soft cushions of her full lips.
They weave tales with her DNA,
And sew their hearts with strands from her braided hair,
While I look on puzzled,
Not understanding how they don’t see,
With each push of the needle,
They also poke a bleeding hole,
That stains it’s natural colour.
Don’t misunderstand,
I love her…but,
All I know is that when I rush to her room,
For sanctuary,
Her bed is warm and inviting,
But she isn’t there.
Her vacant stare catches my breath,
But not in the way,
It would a lover looking at her loved one.
Her smile is devastatingly sad,
Because unlike everyone,
I know her.
I know how beautiful she actually was,
Behind that porcelain prison everyone praises,
That not a minute ago,
She looked outside her window,
Watching the pieces of her soul fly past her,
Into the night,
As she waited,
Waited for her heart to return,
While she stood there,
Dying slowly,
In the arms of such insanity,
Only longing could design.


Poems and Worlds

How mundanely simple the world would be,
If everything was as analogous as a poem,
If people were really like flowers,
Sweet even when crushed,
But more often than it is,
It’s not.

The question of survival

Gimme some time,

Let me see the rain fall,

I don’t know how to ask,

Of something I have none of,

I just want to see,

The drops fall, from my window,

I know these questions may be important,

But there have been so many,

It feels like my life is being sucked,

Regardless of my decisions,

The child inside,

Is begging for resurgence,

It’s funny that I have to choose,

Something that will help me live,

When I can’t even let go,

Spend some time on my own.


So please…

Gimme some time

I want to see the rain fall

Maybe today is the last

At least I know I’ve lived some.

To the Desert Winds

Don’t go away, dear wind,

Stay here..for just some more time,

The fire burns hot,

In these deserts,

The days are as slow,

As our mouths are dry.

Sand is the earth,

Where not a drop resides,

Why don’t you bring me some?

Just a little..for my dear sweet sisters,

They are too young to know,

What it feels like to be bitter,

Clear or littered,

Gold or white,

If it’ll quench our thirst,

Then it’s alright.

My brothers hope to dance,

As they do in them pictures,

We hope to grow old,

To work like these misters,

But I realize that death is more real,

And that more like mama’s fiction.

Goodbye dear wind,

Farewell for now,

When you come back,

Bring some clouds,

I may not see the rain,

That’ll fall while I sleep,

But maybe it’ll be enough,

To allow them to weep.


The devil knows not

I look at devil hands,

And do I get scared?

Get frightened and yell,

Or call my best friend?


Instead I wonder why,

They so crooked,.

Under moisturized..

Unkempt; is the devil so disorganized?

Now I think of our similarities,

Huge pride, ego breathing,

I smile and say how right..,

Let me take a picture,

Poetic imagination, go wild!

The devil’s given up,

I guess from all I’ve learnt,

Horror movies or from how events turn,

Is that the best way to combat evil,

a simple problem and stress givers,

Is to comically laugh at their thought,

Because nothing is actually lost,

Even if the pumping of our blood stops.

Either way,

Whether you are healthy,

Or totally drained,

There’s nothing to fear,

Death is just death,

The devil can’t do anymore,

He will be puzzled and ask what makes you so bold,

While all you can do,

Is sigh with relief..

You know it’s better to die,

Than look that wrinkled and old..


Colour pencils,

Blue, green or black,

I draw with them,

I don’t keep track,

Of all the pictures,

And whether I colour within the lines,

I just like the brightness,

Time passes by,

And sometimes I scribble,

Sometimes it’s dark,

Makes no sense,

Leaves a stain and a mark.

Does it matter?

I sometimes ponder and ask.

And when I look back,

There I know might be waiting,

A mess of colours,

Many many shades and paintings.

Well, whatever it is I am glad,

It’s not just white paper,

Unmarked and completely blank.


Just a shard of my heart,

I gave it away.

No questions asked,

Hoping doors would open,

No more windows.

Keeping time,

Without a single audible tick.

Pills, cough syrup, vodka,

scissors, blades and knots.

Thought I could die


You keep a shard of me alive.


Return like a tourist to your own land,

Explore like you haven’t before,

Run wild among the green grass,

and the heritage you never thought you bore.

Discover the mysteries of the magical dusty temples,

And all the quiet tombs.

Experience the best of your own hospitality,

And eat the best delicacies provided in your own home.

Breathe in the spice and the various smells,

Like an alien visiting earth,

And go back a citizen once again,

With a renewed deep love.

Give me rum

Give me rum,

Let me disinfect my wounds,

Let me drink some,

I’ll give what’s left to you.

Selfish? I don’t think so,

Not with my heart,

Self obsessed at times,

Not without cause.

Stretching my cardiac muscles,

To let more in,

I think I’ll die,

Either way that’s given.

The trouble is my brain,

It’s set on self defence,

Consciously I tend to not keep any,

So my body has.

I feel to a great degree,

I might explode if not stopped,

So like a power off button,

It boots and shuts me down.

No,I’m not a zombie,

So, please don’t shoot!

I’m just human,

With a huge firewall system.

Hack into me,

Break through me,

Maybe you’ll kill me,

Or you’ll save me.

Give me rum,

I hear it loosens the bolts,

Maybe I’ll open the door,

Maybe I’ll let you through.

An artist’s life

Written out on this white paper,

Are the doldrums of my mind,

I doodle with the words,

And try to make art.

Lover’s quarrels,


Depression and happiness,

Even illusions.

Comical is the state,

Of one that feels all.

Empathizing degree set to max,

I shiver with the overload.

I love my convulsions,

Though I crash sometimes,

Because I know a part of me,

Is dead inside.

Cruel and loving,

Self obsessed and overcaring,

Confusing and undependable,

But lovable to a very great extent.

I live my own life in waves,

Sometimes unable to care,

If you want to ride with me sometime,

Bring your life support and other such gear.

I make my promises,

And break them too at times,

For my love for freedom,

For my love of life…

And sometimes I find myself lying on the ground,

A pen in my hand..

A muscle-y extension jutting out,

My thoughts tumbling around,

Fallen, observing or relaxing,

I don’t know which one.

I couldn’t care more..

I couldn’t care less..