Wild eyes. Brown hair.

Crazy ride.

The sun was an orange ball. Beyond the horizon, it stayed away from humans. Its brilliance could burn.

She looks over at him.

Tousled hair. Callouses. Scars. He knows. He’s grown early at nineteen. More grown up than anyone at nineteen could ever be.

More mysterious than the secret of stars. A flower, borne of the wind, she smells like fragrance, she feels like rain.

His skin is a canvas. Stories whisper from each beating he got from his father.

She has her mother’s face. Full lips that trembled whenever she cried.

He wanted to be an artist. He could have been a vagabond, traveling to places, marking his life with memories that felt as alive as him.

She wanted to be a dancer. But life got busy and her legs ache whenever she does one of her practice routines now.

“How have you been?”

“Good.” (She lies.) “And you?”

“Me too.” (He lies.)

The waiter serves wine and chicken wings. They eat silently under the quiet suburban lights. Their silence stares at nothing.

Past lovers. Nothing much to say after all.

He drops her to her hotel.

She reaches out to thank him, but draws her hand back.

His brilliance could burn.

Her eyes could hypnotise.



If only they had stayed longer, there might have been an eclipse.




Black pearls of mine.

Her eyes, black pearls at the end of my favorite cold coffee. Distinct from the brown sea of awakening, a pirates inspiration for adventures beyond bay. The black pearls of mystery, so ordinary yet priceless. Easy to watch, easy to lose gaze of and impossible to hold catch of.

Home and sanctuary to a sparrow like me.  They possess an infinite set of variations with another infinite set of probabilities. A weapon so lethal, the victim loses every game of chance and consciousness.

Her beautiful eyes, I sway at their tune. So fragile, so mysterious, so powerful. My choice of life in life.

Her eyes, they hold the perpetual fire of eternity. They illuminate the dark world of Ragnarok, the thousand petal lotus to my kundalini.

Her eyes, I love them.

Her, I love her more.

The Painter

You told me you loved painting. Every day you would splash colours on your canvas and create magic with every stroke. You would spiral colours into galaxies of your mind and the onlooker would be lost in your world of imagination.

When you met me, you touched my soul in a way no one had. You splashed your colours on me till I was drenched and soaked with your attention. You read me like a painting, noticing each and every detail, the strokes of my hair that fell on my shoulder, the chocolate brown eyes as big as cups of coffee, the dark places inside of my heart which were deceptively hidden but you noticed them anyway.

It was an undeniable romance that seemed to last eternity.

But when I had to leave, all you had left on your fingers were the red, black, lilac, blue and colours you cannot quite describe of my soul, and I remained the only art that you never knew how to paint.


I am sorry I am not broken.

No, I am not messed up, I’m not shattered into pieces. Dare I still write a poem?

Only those are allowed to be sonnets of love songs,

Only those are allowed to be the greatest and loveliest of poets,

those who are broken.
But I am not broken nor messed up nor shattered.

I don’t have scars to brag about, I don’t have pain to hide.

I don’t have sadness engulfing me, killing me inside but a smile on the outside, which would mean I was strong.

Does that mean I’m not strong?

I smile when I feel like it, and I feel that often,

I do not smile when pain is killing me inside, I find that I cannot,

But poems are only written about those who cry within and laugh outside.

So am I not worthy of the poem, am I not strong for being who I am and showing what I feel?
You see, I am not broken nor messed up nor shattered,

My heart was not taken up by a Prince Charming in disguise and crushed into pieces

I don’t have a heart break to dramatize

I don’t have a heart break to cry over, to write love poems about.

But that’s the kind of love poems everyone reads,

that’s the kind of love poems even more write.

Does that make me a bad poet?

A poet without sadness would be like a pen without ink,

the words flow without being registered.
I am not broken nor messed up nor shattered,

and I feel left alone in this world

where broken people are glorified and immortalised through words.

I feel left out when people speak of how broken and messed up and shattered they are

And I know I’m not.

They tell me its a good thing,

I can speak of sunshine and smiles.

They tell me that it is the worst thing that could happen to them, and it feels like their heart is being pulled out of their body,

they tell me they are a mess that I wouldn’t want to clean up,

they tell me that they’ve got a shell meant to keep people outside

because they’ve got demons killing them inside,

they tell me they are different

(does that make me mundane?)

But even as they do this,

They tell it with pride because poets just write about broken and messed up and shattered souls.
I must not be worthy of a poem while all this time all I wanted was to be one.

Renegades with traditions to culture

A world, one without instability is like a river without waves. Changes bring about influences ones that shape “the now”, waves are symbols of freedom ones that bring hurricanes of mystery. All of time has possibilities, possibilities that can change time. All of the possibilities are recognized by the men with vision” the men who make our tomorrows. People who live in today mark the nows with precision and shoot their consciousness to the days of the future.

The leaves of history are filled with such renegades, renegades who create traditions. Traditions that are crippled with culture, values driven by benefits.

So I pray to renegades of today, of tomorrow. Traditions are meant to be cultured, cultures not to be “traditioned” .

When you Fall in Love for the First Time

When you fall in love for the first time,
you will get butterflies in your stomach.
Do not swallow them whole.
Hold his hand.
Watch the butterflies go to sleep.

When you fall in love for the first time,
revel in the feeling,
it will not come back.
You will long for him like water in a dry desert
a little more when he smiles at you
or offers you his umbrella when it’s raining.
The butterflies will fly out from your stomach
into your lips and make its home there.

When you fall in love for the first time,
you will hardly see him for who he is.
Heck, you will barely even recognize yourself
in the mirror.
Your step will have more bounce and you
can hear your friends call you, “Oh silly!”
But it won’t matter
because right now,
only he does.

When you fall in love for the first time,
you are going to want to live a fairy-tale.
But love,
he is not an Angel, no, he’s not even a Prince
He is something much much more special,
He is a Human.

Love him, don’t idolize him,
for if you do,
that glass of illusion is going to shatter,
It’s jagged pieces breaking your heart.

For when you fall in love for the first time,
you’ve got to be careful
Because you never know when
the Butterflies are going
to die.

What if

What if, a picture of the life you were supposed to live, one that you satisfy living in a parallel universe instead. What if, two words to describe what might’ve been, words as unpredictable as the future itself. What if, a sigh of regret, a wish to turn back time and yet, a smile of contentment, for what if you are happy exactly as you are, like it is meant to be, without having to change anything at all?

We all are so used to living in what ifs and regrets that we forget to live instead. We forget to take the much more powerful antidote, the other two words, ‘Thank you.’

‘Thank you for the choices I’ve made,’ ‘Thank you because if this doesn’t make sense now, I have faith that it will someday,’ ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you,’ on and on till you feel rich with vibrant energy and deep seated contentment.

For if ‘what if’s’ are like the bittersweet muddy waters after the rain, one that sucks you in sticky sadness till you can’t move further anymore, stagnant like a mosquito stuck in a spider web, then ‘thank you’s’ are like the fresh summer breeze, cooling all the hyper active synapses, whispering in your ear, ‘It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.’

Forgive the human follies and mistakes which are all an imperfect part of a perfect design, all in the process of moving towards the simple realization; gratitude is always stronger than regret. Let’s make the best of what we have to create the best of what could ever happen because if this is the only life we’ve got, it’s too damn short to dwell in ‘what if’s’.


Aastitva ko chari.

The silhouette of the raven on the tip of the cypress valley blended with the evening sky, with his ends met for the day. He sighs “Autumn”, the wave before the crash.

As the mountain winds graze through the trees, he takes off in tune with the high strings of November. The flight brings with it an overwhelming current of freedom. As he scours the majestic lands below him, a bright light from the forest blinds his vision. The flight route changes from dynamic/multidimensional to static/one dimensional, the orb allures him like pirates to mermaids. He starts falling, accelerating towards the pine like a scud.

The branches break his fall, breaking twigs of their own. He slips down the branches one after the other, beak deep on the ground. As his trance breaks with his neck.

All left of his existence is a carcass and a memory which cannot be stored in a flash drive.


In the sky decorated by millions of stars, my eye searches for one that is not seen, far away, where I wonder where my family is, and if they are doing fine without me.

I was sent on a covert mission by our highly advanced species to come to another primitive planet with life in it, in order to guide them towards enlightenment. Being the smartest on the team, they sent me here alone. It was popularly held that being as capable as I am, I could manage on my own.

Little did any of us know, that as soon as the spaceship entered the Solar System, my spaceship jostled out of its sleep and lost all those powers with were exclusive to our kind. Earth was a place where my special skills wouldn’t work, reading minds, going without food for weeks at length, etc.

In the beginning this surprised me, and then it hit me.

Our galaxy was on the other side of the collapsed star Sirion. While we had our own star Ru which gave us light and life, Sirion was a formidable companion who we turned to in need of darkness. It never harmed us much even though it had a huge gravitational pull and it was commonly held that it was because we were from a correct distance from it. To come to Earth, we had to go through the black mass of the collapsed Sirion. It was on Earth that I realized, Earthlings called our Sirion the Black Hole. No earthling had been anywhere beyond the point.

Yet, our galaxy was on the other end of it, non-existent to the humans almost… almost as if we were a parallel universe in itself. No, worse yet, almost as if, we were the future, evolved version of this planet, simultaneously existing together with the present version of it. After all, it is a well-known fact that time is merely an illusion…

And now, even though I have figured the puzzle out, I still don’t have a way to escape. I should have been more careful when I went out of my body for longer than usual in search of anyone, anyone, of our kind. When I didn’t find any, I had no choice but to return to my body on earth, but alas, the ignorant Earthlings had imagined me dead and buried the body.

I suppose there is nothing else to do now, except wait while I’m stuck in a timeframe between two universes, and until time gives up on itself, I have no chance of escape.

Dear Pretty Girl in Instagram

Dear Pretty Girl in Instagram,

 You may not know me at all, but I think you are very beautiful. You seem to have all the perfect moments. The perfect hairstyle, the perfect selfie, the perfect body, the perfect clothes. You seem to have a lot of awesome friends with even more awesome moments to spend with them. You and your boyfriend seem to be very much in love, with no problems whatsoever, forever celebrating the honeymoon phase of a relationship. A lot of people seem to admire you, Miss Popular that you are, with all those people praising you, all the love that they send out to you.

But what’s the story behind those pretty pictures? Are you honestly happy with how your life is? I’d like to get to know you better than just your pictures. Could we maybe share a cup of coffee together? Tell me about yourself, go on ahead, I’m a good listener.

Maybe the story behind the perfect hairstyle, was that your sister had come in town and she sat you down while she talked about her new life and did your hair. Or, maybe you were just bored so you whiled away your time watching YouTube videos about how to make your hair look pretty.

Maybe your body isn’t so perfect after all, at least that’s what you think. What if you post pictures of it, just to get comments about how sexy and hot you look, so you don’t feel insecure anymore? Or maybe you’re just proud of how you look, and not afraid to show it.

Ooh and tell me about the one time you went shopping out with your friends, and wore clothes simply to take pictures in the trial room. Maybe all girls have that one story to tell. 
And what about your friends? Do you have some sort of politics in it? Maybe you don’t like someone in the group, and maybe someone doesn’t like you, but when all of you pose for a picture, its all cheese and smiles.

I know you probably won’t tell me your boyfriend problems, or would you? Start off with the good things first, the way you feel safe around him, how he does sweet things for you, the way he took you out on a romantic date that one time. But you’re going to tell me about the bad times too aren’t you? That sometimes you’re afraid it won’t last, that sometimes you feel insecure, that sometimes both of you have fights that no one needs to know about because seriously, you just want people to keep thinking that you are #couplegoals. Please, don’t think it’s a cliché, for every person online wears a mask, and to pretend that the mask doesn’t exist, is itself a lesson on how to be a hypocrite.

Are you also going to tell me about the times when you look at other people’s profile, and about how imperfect you feel as compared to them? Oh, it’s a wild wild competition isn’t it?

But the truth is, it doesn’t have to be a competition. It doesn’t have to be about who gets more likes, who’s more #couplegoals than you and your partner, it doesn’t have to be about who has more followers. Instagram, is simply a photo diary you like to keep public, and you can keep it in whichever way you want it. Don’t care about the haters, we all have got some. The point is, as long as you’re doing what makes you happy, you’re doing the right thing for you.
And as about the perfect moments, maybe they aren’t the ones you’ve put on instagram, the ones where you’ve “candidly” laughed at something with your friends. Maybe the perfect moment was sometime else, when all of you laughed about something silly, when your friend told you she believed in you, when he tucked your hair behind your ears, when you cried and your mother was there to hug you. 

Maybe, on second thoughts, I don’t know you at all because you are so much more than just pictures and those ‘perfect’ moments captured on camera.