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To un-mountain

A blotch of blue on a patch of white
I used to scribble verses, petite
Not one, not two,
But too many to few.

They rhyme
They chime
They jingle
They mingle
with the million songs of the world

They get into my ear
play into my soul
and kindle me to write the untold

Yet I struggle
with chains in shackle
I lament about the other
which contain to thyself

I build the mountains
put them up a pedestal
look up and feel abysmal
of my unfortune moments
that keep fattening and tense

As they loom up to altitude 
I frown into doom,
Doom that's dark and uncertain
Or that which I call future.

I pace around in anger
of my fated future
that seemingly sulks
but when I sit and opine
I realise, it is my mind
that plays unto my joy
my mind that scars my heart
and adds streaks of suffering
into my life.

I decide not to lie,
not to comply
but thrive
in what I contrive
to let go of the mountains
renouncing joy for a pedestal
that worth nothing 
but a miserly mind 
and a heart of self-doubt.

Image courtesy: Internet


  1. wonderful rhyming scheme. ABAB is too hard to replicate. Shows ur immense language prowess!

  2. wonderful rhyming scheme. ABAB is too hard to replicate. Shows ur immense language prowess!


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If you had missed the previous chapters of the story: Click here Chapter 1Chapter 2


It was the fall again, they had gone for a stroll outside the university campus into the beautiful park where snowy trees surrounded the white spread and there were very few passers-by due to the freezing chill.
The two of them hovered around enjoying the beauty carpeted around them. Maureen had already gone down, working her gloved hands into the snowy layers. She started rolling a huge ice ball with a grin on her pink face. Steve looked at her dazed by the tinkle of her eyes and the jingle that her laughter spread in his heart.  The moist wind ruffled her blond hair, some of which fell onto her face like a wave onto the shores.
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Being humane

Every dawn dooms with wail

I never opine but in my daze,

For I am human, humane.

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To write is to dwell

FEBRUARY 15th, 2012

What writing means to me...

As lonely as a cloud, as boring as boredom itself, I was. I grew up as a typical child at school but a very hefty one, I am still the same. I managed to cheer people with my innocence but did not manage to make happy friends to last a lifetime because of my gross physique. I couldn't play as I had no playmates at home and my only hobby was to sit and watch tv.

When I was studying in kindergarten, I used to visit a nearby shop with my dad. My dad was busy shopping for groceries and I engaged myself in observing things around me. The people who had mixed emotions that outshone on their faces, an old man cycling with a lot of strain, probably getting back home, the lady vendor with her dirty saree pinned up to her waist and squatting on the floor, selling vegetables, the autowala bargaining with his potential customer, the green trees which arched high with its countless leaves, the flowers that smile at me on the road side, happy child…