Torn and Tossed from an Ancient Diary

For the longest time I’ve felt the stars sing to me
In voices meant not to be heard
With lyrics
Emerging out of a language
Named after our nameless relationship
That kept our questions
As secrets
That secretly tuned my infatuation into admiration
But now they’re dead
To have become stars in a sky way above them
That embraced all my desperate nights
That went from wasting
To spending
On searching for what was underneath my sheets
Not letting the clouds of artificial art blind my vision
And deafen me to their music
For the love saved us some whispered lyrics
That they still scream just to me
And every night.


The celebration of a tragic despair
You only knew you longed for
When you could smell it again
Turn the last page
So the three pager trauma
Turns into a redemption of nostalgia
You wondered how you could get away
Until your mistakes were mistaken for tricks
It went and hung itself someplace unknown
When all this while
It might’ve been buried some place known
And you come to realise
It never really was about how dark it gets
But about how it gets that dark.

Repair Reaper

Nights made of monochromatic rainbows,
Invite the cemented rain
To make walls with the blacks of the sun
A search for something that ignites the desire to begin a search
And a far-fetched dream to stop loathing dreams defeated by reality
With color-wise thoughts hung in them,
It took an hour and more
To decide on picking the hangers that get picked every day
The newly built wall all resolute to declare dawn as its first sight
Displayed cracks quite like the old one
The crevices of which I could make out despite the sheet of layer

In the morning, I saw the moon.
I picked the last of all the hangers.

Plea for Plea-?

Disguising as subtle, poetic phrases
Or trying to escape the taboos
It converges to the point of necessity.
Escaping through subtle, poetic phrases
Or disguised in taboos
It diverges from the point of incompleteness
Would you rather settle at the shore for incompleteness
Or scatter yourself in the sea of satisfaction?

Wrapped in white lies
With creases of imposed loyalty
Happiness is a long-lasting myth
Creases of freedom
Wrapped in nonchalance
Laughter is a temporary truth.

Silhouettes to bring tears
That tear the heart apart
And tart the teeth
Silhouettes to bring bliss
That bless the killed fill
And mint the mouth

When a knot after knot can make the string more attractive
Why does the convention make a knotless one more sellable?

Shapeless Constellation

Twinkling enough to fool the moon for once
And making it buy them for stars
You just soaked your nondetachable threads in sparkles
But now you don’t mind the sparkles turning into dust
You start from the finish line, hoping you’d cross it
When all this while the ribbon was tied to the start line
Of a ceremonial beginning
That somehow looked like the last race
A starry night fooled you
For tonight it’s starless
But cries in self-admiration
Like never before
You somehow never increased the volume
Of the song I sang in the absence of a rhythm
Owing to the symphonies that fooled you yet again
It’s a little too strange
To blame yourself
For the hero you’ve never been
But tonight it might just be disguised as me
For thoughtlessness makes it hard for me to remember anything
But not as hard as it does to forget tonight
The subtle mystery somehow still lies in identifying where this makes it till
Is it its crushed fellows it belongs with
Or is it its crushed fellow it belongs with?

Life Sentence?

Aching and aiming at attempting to analyse
Bravery of those hiding behind breakable curtains of breakable pleasure
Cruising around the idea that crevices coexist in a world full of confused and competing humans
Dissolving the stitches into disillusionment so that unity desists to sound like an illusion
Echoes are now etched on this flesh that once so effortlessly and eloquently screamed of emotion
Fighting with flesh fearing that their fight with soul might cause a fire that burns them failing to see the real fire that’s killing them
Gated guts no longer absorb growth but gaze at how glib phrases continue growing on us
Hoping to have a secret guardian angel shared by the world stop by and pick up the pieces of hunger we’ve been hiding under our beds of hatred
Isolating all our insecurities that insist on insulating us from everything that ignites us only to make us ice cold
Juggling thoughts every jiffy to assure just the perfect outside made of a broken inside but then again, we fail to realise that our inside wants out
Killing all our pain with this knife of cursory knowledge until we realise that we’re the killers and the ones who are killed
Long lost longing lures the losing side to lives of loss and misery, finally looking everywhere just to find lives of death
Mist made by madness for clarity that molds the answers but mourns for questions
Nurturing nests of hope at night to make them smell like old homes only to find out new houses built up the next morning
Our optical lenses recognise all colours but fail to see their own blind spots that crave to opt out of just reds and yellows to create an orange for themselves
Puzzled pieces are searching for the puzzle that gives them meaning because praises pause if we’re not perfect
Questions questioning the silence silencing their followers following the answers answering them
Roll around in this puddle reminiscing the lost rains that left us seeking its endless reach and revisit the touch of each raindrop
Send signals to all those fighting their dream even in their sleepless slumber to stop and seize it all before it’s sold
Terror tricks us into teasing like a child to growing up to tame the trembles
Use the unordinary to understand the hidden layers of the ordinary to realise how uniqueness is usually in the places we don’t look
Vacate before we get used to breathing in vacuum when our voices scream of vengeance
Whining over whats and whens and wheres, forgetting about the whys only to find
X-rays that detect problems and not problems that we wish x-rays could detect
Years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds yearned for their existence yesterday, hoping today would change tomorrow, and notice how
Zebras are not afraid of exposing their blacks and whites, so why are we?

P.S. The writing journey of this piece of ‘spoken word’ has been symbolic of the evolution of my alphabet of friendship with Rushali Rohira, who equally invested a part of herself in it. If it tempts you to take another peek into that part of her, might help.


I was bleeding from the ceiling.
Underneath the lights of the night in my eyes.
I was excused for not holding the best
And I woke up to realising
That’s the dream yet to be my dream.

I was shooting the past life chimera
Underneath the creases the river leaves in my arms
I was left into a newly self spaced daydream
And I slept to it realising
I was biased towards shooting just the real illusions.

I was settling for the battles
Underneath the breaths longing to last inside each weapon
I was pushed into battling with peace but for peace
And I dreamt to realising.

Sounds of Darkness

The dream catcher turns into steel
And knocks on my neck
Exactly the way it would
It talks to me perfectly
While they are trying to keep their lashes stuck
The last breeze leaves me with the sound of its dangle
And its last sound leaves me with the breeze
The morning breeze that’s filled with night
Trying to borrow away the stars left on my neck
Telling me it’s gonna come back to me
Bringing now a chandelier
Whose dangle leaves a sound
Even when it’s distant from distant
As much as that made half of my heart,
the other half missed what the breeze took away from my neck.


Cartons ready,
packed and taped
Decided never to move
Trying to win the skating contest
with the wheels being missing
Ready to live
in a house with weeding dowry
Cartons hidden in the storeroom
no one knows the way to
Opening them secretly
from time to time,
treasuring them,
as the memory of the dead,
while even fainting was far from them.

Time Circuit

In time,
there will be drops of green
on the white-
the white that I wish was red
Attaching wires which cause a short circuit
even before the bulb lights up
But the bulb would’ve turned into pieces of glass anyway
And sooner or later,
a scintilla of that glass would enter the sole
of him who would attach those wires without any power
yet of the people who must’ve been painted with a little leaf blood already.

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