“My son, just 5,

Fell from his bike,

And started to scream,

One less pearly white.

I gathered him up,

In my arms and cooed,

There there, my child,

Tis’ but a small wound.

And it struck me, how soon,

He’d be strong, now 18,

And heartbroken,

He’d want to cry.

But they’ll call him weak,

Won’t let him whine,

Overtime, he’ll learn,

How to fake a smile.

So I tell him now,

What he’ll hear all his life,

As I keep on telling,

My inner child,

There there, its okay,

You’re a husky big strong boy,

And I hurt myself, 

When I say these words,

It’s okay, strong boys do not cry.”

Poetry, Quill

The Perils of Forever

Its promise enchants us

And assuages our sore hearts

For a yearn to seek solace

Asked, to catch hold of this place

We flit, to seize it

And, to its eternalness we submit.

Even after,

Having known its legacy

We often neglect its tendency

To not exist.

And anew the inevitable never

Triumphs over the non existent forever

Poetry, Quill

Destructions That Fix

Part 3

Once in a while, you lose your vision and gain something far more important.

You gain the sight to see the galaxies that cover up your skin, that speak highly of how much you need to care about yourself, of how often you need to see yourself and remind yourself that you are enough.

The scent of the colours that damage your skin doesn’t define you, it guides you.

It guides you through a journey that is worth a billion years of darkness just to realize the importance of light.

The journey ends when you find your scent, when you don’t need to see galaxies in your body to know you are extraordinary.

It ends when you know you are extraordinary.

And just like that, you kiss your wounds and thank your crazed up mind for creating something so harmful that it cures because damage sure does bring happiness, doesn’t it?



When my words fall apart,
When you witness utter silence,
When my syllables crumble before your eyes,

Remind me, To hold you.
Because you know, in order to love you,
I need to touch you; Slow.
Like clouds floating in clear blue sky,

And when I love you,
I will stroke your hair,
Trace your eyebrows,
Outline your lips,
Brush your fingers against mine.
Just so you know,
I love better when I’m close to you.

And if I love you,
I’ll make sure you know,
What it means for me
To have your warm fingers touch my cheeks,
Watch you sing,
Listen to your slow breaths when you sleep.

Because you know, in order to love you,
I need to touch you; Slow.
Like clouds floating in clear blue sky,

Poetry, Quill

From Oblivion

Awake that night
I could hear my heart, beat
Awake that night
I could see my dreams, betide
Awake that night
I could feel my spirit, await

That night was what, I was.

Awake tonight
I can feel my heart’s, glee
Awake tonight
I can see my dream, become a reality
Awake tonight
I can hear my spirit’s, revelry

Tonight is what, I will be.

Poetry, Quill

Destructions That Fix


Every once in a while, your hands are not yours anymore.

They belong to the infinites of the sky that seem so close but are so far.

The colours; that speak of crimes; seem to pleasantly spread across your hands.

And voluntary actions change into involuntary sensations.

The colours on your hands caress the colours of the vibrant sun.

The soft touches of its rays burn into your timid hands and you feel alive.

It is a mystery worth a million years of experiencing burns on every inch of your colourful and soft skin, isn’t it?

How can damage bring happiness?

Poetry, Quill

Destructions That Fix

Part 1

Every once in a while, your skin doesn’t feel the same anymore,

When you feel the cracks of your unending skin widening and the colors that fill you up exploding

And you bathe in the dripping insanity of those colours that violate the innocence of your skin.

These colours hurt the skin that hurt your soul.

These colours make you feel safe even if the sense of calm and peace is a far-fetched idea.

It is a mystery worth drowning a billion years in the suffocating thick shallows of these colours that make you up, isn’t it?

How can damage bring happiness?

Poetry, Quill


I am a piece of everything

A ray of sunshine on the first day of spring

A note from the song the nightingale sings.

I breathe with liberty

In the space’s infinity

I am, a flake of divinity.

A drop of the ocean

Filled with emotion

A shard, of selfless devotion.

Yet, I do not belong to anybody

I am my own

Always was

Always will be

But still, a piece of everything.



We poets are scavengers
We survive on rotting memories,
Feed upon dying hearts,
Thrive on shedding tears.

For us, people are muse;
A potential poem.
A terrible heartbreak.
A cliched forever.
An unsent letter.
A living art.
A raging war.

Half human, Half stitches
Half melancholy, Half poetry
A sound of wreckage
A blasphemy.
Our mind, an accident prone area.

The surviving world,
The scavenger poets.
The perfect world,
The imperfect poets.

Poetry, Quill

Crimson colossus

As if the sun hadn’t gleamed enough,
It shone off the face of ‘gratitude’,
Glorious was he, king of the seven seas,
Glorious bastard, the warlock of lies,
Glorious indeed, a long ashamed,
To look in his children’s eyes,
The beggar that sat beneath his statue,
Has had no shade enough to sleep,
All I see in the statue’s eyes,
Are fountains of crimson, running deep,
And its lips do bleed,
Blood soaks its feet,
Perhaps, a drop at a time,
Or all at once, I smile,
For the crimson colossus that I see,
Has its features crooked and vile,
The crimson colossus that I see,
To you is a marble paradise,
For I know behind his benign smile,
Is where the sinister demons lie.