Sunday, 29 September 2013

Bolt Away

What is really to be free?
To be boundless?
To fly away,
Like Harry on Firebolt,
With the free air, 
And endless sun,
With the inexpensive walks,
And the solitude,
With chanced meetings, 
And forgotten memories,
What is it that you give away from yourself,
To be free?
The hidden, uncaged remains,
Of your soul?
What is that place in your heart you have,
That nobody else does?
Everyone always find an excuse,
To excuse their life somehow,
Don't let slip pass that second,
When it'll be all you need,
To squander your remaining life,
The dissipation of selves,
Sometimes is all required,
To be free.

There's a lot of collateral damage your freedom costs.


Tuesday, 24 September 2013

Never Mine

How terrifyingly sincere are those words,
Which never left your mouth,
The words, that still exist only on the tip of your tongue,
Those words, igniting fire inside of you,
Fire, most people won't get near to,
Fire, that's only seeming smoke to others,
Your own words, having the courage to destroy you, 
Purposelessly, of course,
Like a child eager to play, throwing toys at you,
Only, that he doesn't intend harm,
Words, unspoken of, 
Words, mentioned of only,
 In the darkest corners of your mind,
Words, stringing along forming a dangerous story,
Story, all yours,
Words, still yours,
Why so then, do they seem foreign?
Why do they put up like a tenant, in a place,
That's all theirs?
Why do they run and hide in the coils of our mind,
Each time we wish to spit them out?
Words, that are horrified, 
Of being rejected by the hearer,
Words, that are born by those few,
Who know where to press the right nerves,
Or, the wrong ones, maybe?
Words, that were never ours,
Words, that are all yours,
Words, that obstruct the potential,
Only for being rendered unspoken,
Words, that'll always be so terrifyingly sincere,
Words, that are innocent,
Words, ostentatious.

Funny things, words.


Saturday, 21 September 2013


Have you ever known,
what coming home is like?
How would you, 
When all you've done, is wander,
Through every lane, searching,
For truths, fighting them with lies,
Pulling your own strings apart,
Heartbeat by heartbeat,
You will never know,
What coming home is like.

Have you ever known,
The warmth of another soul,
The comfort of the company,
Of another's silence?
When all you've done,
Is run away,
Thinking of everyone as crowd,
Selling your heart out,
On cheap street take-outs,
While only gathering the lonesomeness,
Others had on offer,
You will never know,
The warmth of another soul.

Have you ever known,
The disgrace of two parted lovers?
How would you,
When you believed you two,
Could survive apart,
But what for, really?
Because all you did,
Was be terrified, but awed,
You will never know,
The disgrace, the ache, the abomination,
Of two parted lovers.

I miss this space a hell more often now.


Saturday, 14 September 2013


Can you take me someplace else?
Where my diary isn't the one,
Whom I tell things, I used to tell you, 
That's not home,
A place you're homesick for, 
A world, not to be found,
But to get lost in,
Where there's no tax on coffee, 
And people live to read,
Where the freshness of the cakes,
Is the only intoxication to resort to,
Where the wine is shared with only those you love, 
And not to forget them,
That is untouched by profit,
That is virgin in its most spectacular manner,
Where you can talk to stars,
And instead of guiding you, they hear you,
For a change?
Where the moon is unblemished,
And the sun shines only until,
Your warm skin shines to make you stand out,
Do you know of a place like this?
Take me to that place,
Where you're the only person I tell things,
And my diary is the only one to tell things,
I can't tell you. 

In hunger of someplace.


Wednesday, 11 September 2013


She sat by the same window, stirring her coffee. Looking out - thinking - nothingness. The comprehension of the most simplest activities of the human mind stayed well beyond her reach. She came here often to be astray in the smoke from the chimneys that preceded the green lake. Through the cloud of the smoke, she kept her attention out for the water. Water that seemed misty from the chimney smoke. Water that was true. Water, that was imperviously solid. Water, that reflected everything for what it was. She smirked, thinking funnily, how the haze from the steam of her coffee, was just so essential for her to obstruct the distractions the world was ready to serve on a plate, each time that she was here. Alike the steam of her coffee blanketed her when she rendered herself most vulnerable, the smoke of the chimneys, never let anyone see the true face of the water. She often thought to herself, how unfair for the water to be abandoned out there naked. Oh, how she could understand the shame of it! But, she thought, the foliage must be burying the hatchet for it by imparting its avocado to the water. Is that why the water is green? Is that why it was so hard to look inside of it? She wanted to dive deep down in it and fish out secrets the water curtained from the rest of the world. And as her coffee came down to the bottom, she hurriedly closed her diary, paid the bill and took off, lest anyone caught her at her most open moments, when there was no coffee steam to envelop her flaws and weaknesses, when the caffeine started to drain out from her veins. She took off. To another place, in search to unravel the opacity of something else, something new, where she'd find more coffee, more steam, and lesser probabilities of having the taste of her own medicine. 

Inspirations are a funny thing. 

Worked up,

Sunday, 8 September 2013


It's hard to not be deafened by its inconspicuous screams. Shrill, hard, hurtful. When it touches someone, it ceases the soul. It renders, the unfortunate, inhumanly vulnerable. And sometimes, only sometimes, allows the white light to peep in. Imparting its only emotion to the one it strikes on, it never leaves. It sucks them out, feeds itself off them. Its presence starts to be felt in the gut, rising to your heart, increasing its beats, reaching out for your throat to squash it, wrangle it, and choke all your strengths and happiness down the drain. Those people with a frown on their heads, a doubt in their eyes, and a silent scream in their slightly opened mouth? Yes, them. They're the ones helplessness has been feeding off of. Nibbling at their coils, it spreads like termites in your body. You'll feel it. When immobility will dictate over you, and thinking of a way out will only burn those extra cells in your brain, you'll know it. You'll know what hit you, you'll know what's eating at you. 
The paralyzing emotion. The fear of fearlessness. The ripping away of things you're used to. The drifting gravity. 

A recent picture, this.

Craved up,

Thursday, 5 September 2013


I keep thinking constantly how sickening it is to be hanging in the middle of loving and forgetting someone. And by sickening, I don't mean morbid, but more like an illness. It starts affecting you bit by bit like cold, sores your throat, numbs your ears, and then gradually as the virus spreads, you take to bed. The situation is somewhat similar. You never know how, and when it'll get its hands on you eventually, and suck you dry. And all you're left with are unanswerable questions. I don't assume they're as unanswerable, as much questionable they can be. 

WHen you suck a person dry, you'll never realise how much of them you've taken away from the person. Because not everyone is courageous enough to trust, and not everyone is brave enough to move over the pain. If you couldn't fuel their beliefs, do not give them further reason to not trust again. Do not make them as cold as you. Give them answers. Even if they're angelic enough to not question anything, reason out. Give them solid facts to believe. Give them the truth. You always owe a person who became a part of your life at least this much. Do not give them reasons to reckon that it's their fault, even if it isn't. You never know how much a person has to part with to keep you in their life. 

We all always have stories nobody knows. Stories that hurt us, humiliate our feelings, break us apart. Stories that are the sole witness of our destruction. Everyone has a such story. Do not be a part of that story. We assume that our truths might hurt the person. True, they do. But it's the ultimate thing to help them out of you. If you really want to, that is. And if you don't wish to, tell them. If you're unsure, if you think you might go back, you tell them to fucking wait because you want to be there, just not yet. 

And, no. You'll never be a part of that story for me. That story was long shut. You're just an incomplete secret story. My secret, my story. And that, I'm not going to let you take away from me. Because you'll always be my number one. 


Monday, 2 September 2013


What you are and what I am, is not very different. 
Each time I open up this space to write to/about you, I end up at a shortage of words to put to my feelings, where what I'm feeling inside is a calamity. You've always had that effect on me. What you are is no one. I still, to date, think where I went wrong. Sure, you stated otherwise, insisting on taking the blame for the entire hoola-hoop. But you have to understand, that what you felt, was a consequence of my doing.

When I think of all the times I spent talking to you all day and night, it seems like a different time altogether. The velvet of your voice, our laughs, arguments, Skype conversations. It's almost like I can smell your perfume from the last time we met. 

I'm lost. Effin-motherfucking-lost.
You were my new poem. 

Fragmented love,