Skip to main content



They're there, they're there...everywhere, the ring fence that shrouds me from the lare, they're dark, they're white, they fend me off anything bright they rejoice at the end of my every day when I struggle to keep my sorrows at bay What sorrows do I have, you ask? Those that trample an idle man's brain those that gnaw at my insides those that threaten to spill to wither in scarlet, to explode to fountain up, to germinate in my soul. They threaten to spread roots reach my throat and grab my neck get closer and warmer, strangle tight until all the grey clouds take shape in my head. I see shadows of my past self the one with passion, the one where I wanted to dwell, wherever I turn, they appear taunting me of my choices rubbing my face with embers of regret blooming cactii, gleaming thorn on my dwight life. they're there, they're there... everywhere they spell out like rain stain my hand like Macbeth's sin
Recent posts

I'm too shallow to write a verse

I'm too shallow to write a verse To wrap around the twists and turns To dwell unto my own, I do Living somebody else's life or my own? Shrouded under piles of thought, I scribble, thinking only of the applause. I'm too shallow to write a verse or two To make ends meet, I'm too cuckoo. I'm not the classic, scratching blue wooing 'em, tearing 'em apart  with every word. I'm not the one who rhymes nor the one with notes for those lyrics. I'm the one who scribbles blotching blue on all my troubles, roiling over moments back and forth, trying to string those stray words, into at least a doggerel.   See, I don't make sense.  I told you, I'm too shallow to pen that sonnet, that ballad, that haiku, that refrain, that ode. I'm forcing it out all that gibberish snowballed  unto mine, to chime and rhyme  but nevertheless I realise in time, I'm to shallow to be read over cheese and


Image courtesy:  world wide web The stars that connect the sky,  the tides that weave the sea, the pebbles that merge the shore, the trees that mesh the forest, the branches that link the trees,  the leaves that entwine the branches, the sun that lights the horizon, the sky that paints the water, the waters that survives the fish, the fish that eats the seaweeds, the seaweeds that carpets the rocks, the rocks that protects the soil, the soil that strengthens the roots, the roots that keeps alive the trees,  the trees that mesh the forest, the forest that survives the big bears, leopards, and birds, the birds that live on the worms, the worms that protect the soil, the soil that gives birth to crops, the crops that survive the we, the we that eat everything in this big, wild world, the world in us is the world outside, the outside that reflects the inside, the inside that is abstract,


Coat it in pink, flash a smile, crease it hard as they roll down, martyrs of pain. "Paws up, shoulders straight! Look pretty."  instructs mama.  Tummy in,  flab tucked in black. eyes apprehensive. legs curled up, I wait a moment or two.  Mind travels forth and back. "Is he looking?"  eyes flutter eyelashes bat neck turns.  He was, or may be he might have... Tummy in, turn away, flash a smile small talk, act busy. I hear his voice a little distant now, get a glimpse as I tilt eyeballs to the side.   He looks at me, she points a finger with muffled attempts  to hide laughter.  Tummy in, turn away, flash a smile small talk,  act busy. Mask it up, smooth some kohl on teary eyes. coat it in pink, crease it hard, stroke your hair with a plastic comb.  corset your curves, hold in tight. Breathe less, tummy in, flab tucked in black. sit in a stoo

Falling in and out

You are the ray of my day The moon of my nights The bamboo of my flute The minutes of my time You are the flowers in my spring The leaves in my autumn The snow in my winter Well… Errrmmm.. You are also my sweat in the summers The ads between my shows The fog when I drive And yes! The owls when I sleep The landslide when I trek That cluster of dirt on the shores Clobber along the waves and reach my toes You are the violinist when Rome burns My speed breaker at every turn The mold in my only piece of bread What would you be thinking about me? I know you won’t care might still remember me The memories we made The struggles we wade The nights of unrest Of passion, of lust, Then of tears with regret Also in absence, of hate But haven’t we been there Or have we not? Has it faded, or Has it deluded? Have you fluttered away From the abode of my kind? Or are you trickling down Slowly melting away Like the flakes of w

The tiny, weird, little journey of thoughts!

I often wonder what am I so preoccupied about that I can't pick up a pen and write.. I can't sit down and think about things. Things that mattered to me once, about thinking itself. My weird little thoughts when I was a child. I would associate people's faces with weird animals, would crease every line on their face and every reaction of their's in my mind, of what is happening inside my body at that precise moment... blood flowing into veins and out of arteries into my heart, of my flesh, bones and my skull.  Its really weird, isn't it? And then I would think of thoughts itself, how they flow in and out, how they open myriad windows in my mind, each jutting off into their own rambles simultaneously, of things which I barely notice nowadays, like the trees, the centipedes that sit clustered in hundreds on the moist cement pavement which I happen to notice as I go to class everyday, of the beautiful designs and patterns on their wriggling bodies, how the mill

The forward button

What's the use of feeling enraged? Your blood grasping hot iron fumes thrust through igniting the char it twists and turns and knots a million cinders burning its way through your heart and puckering through your brains gnawing a deep hole that lets you estranged. As you scrabble through  cursing wildly under your breath sweating your way into dark, uncharted poles Flick your eyeballs, as you cast them on to every syllable that has ever been inked, dissolved in the contagion  or even to be uttered scattered intrigue, a few coins up their sleeves, a back sword, a bludgeon, a pistol appears from the magician's hat there lay a crimsoned stiff or more,  rather many wailing upon their loss be it their petite stock of the green  or their soul bread that  wouldn't lead to another suicide, or the penny that fell off their spilling pockets. As the bulging belt spits out another button, he frolics with a glass of liquor and