Never Again

I wish

There was a way

To cut through

Some things,

Skip through

Some things,

Unlive through

Some things,

And most of all,

A way to

Never have to

Go through

Some things

Ever again!



the things that you see

in your daymares are even worse

than the ones

in your nightmares at times,

if not outrightly

then in the grand scheme of things.

beaded scarves, raindrop earrings,

and stiletto heels that look

regal in the silver moonlight;

I am scared of anything

that costs more than I make,

I am terrified of anything

that can outlast me.


Photo by Miguel Á. Padriñán from Pexels


As the years

Turn to dust,

The folded scraps

Of yellowing paper

Safely tucked away

In the pockets

Of worn-out coats,

Missing a button or two,

Become fewer

And farther between,

Until no memory

Of discrete moments

Can be retrieved

Without being consumed

By the history

Of almost everything!


“With each passing moment I’m becoming part of the past. There is no future for me, just the past steadily accumulating.”

Haruki Murakami


Not every house

Can have a fireplace,

But every home

Has at least a few

Photographs from before

To huddle around,

And that snugness

Might make up for

The missing heat,

And might be

Just as sweet.


“I have learned that to be with those I like is enough.”
Walt Whitman


How can you feel like water

If nothing flows right for you,

And how can you feel grounded

If the earth decides to befriend

Everyone except your dog-tired feet,

And how can you keep burning

If the fire in you keeps losing flame,

And when the wind is incessantly

Being knocked out of you,

How can you be in your element?


“The more you know who you are, and what you want, the less you let things upset you.”
Stephanie Perkins

A Haven

you have to

put it somewhere;

the grim darkness

that threatens

to blow out

a few perpetually lit

candles on the cake

inside your head

which celebrates

its level-headedness

in spite of

its inability to hold

any thought

long enough for you

to sound smart,

and its willingness

to fall apart

on cue-

you put it in your art!


Being Unseasonable

Is it winter enough

for impassiveness

to set in?

Everything seems

like a chore lately.

I put “wake up”

as the first thing

on my to do list,

and it is usually

all downhill from there!


“Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can’t be right.”

J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

Going Nowhere

I missed another train of thought,

and now I am stranded at the station,

I cannot refund my one way ticket

for it was never a two way situation-

I had listened to you but had spaced out

during my half of the conversation.

There is an empty wooden bench

and it can serve as my workstation;

I believe I shall be here for a while

so this might as well be my destination.




I got stabbed,

Stabbed with words,

It was all right;

There was no blood.


Bees sting her a lot.

She thinks they hate her.

They believe that she

Is worth dying for.


He’s been walking around

In his father’s shoes,

Two sizes too small;

He believes that he

Has to learn to fit

Into his world, after all.


But I didn’t understand then. That I could hurt somebody so badly she would never recover. That a person can, just by living, damage another human being beyond repair.”
Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun


A few untroubled poems (hopefully) about what troubles us:


this time last year,

I had a different set

of worries;

today at this time,

I have more worries

than before,

the only difference

is that I am not

that worried anymore

and that, in fact,

is worrisome.


I hear myself

voicing my fears,

but they come out

in whispers

and stay suspended

in the static air,

but the suffocation

that follows

becomes unbearable,

the faint

whispers unhearable;

I wonder

what it is like to have

a voice that can

diffuse across thick air,

I wonder

what it is like to have

my own voice,

but none of my fears!


you sit quietly

with your head

bent over a table

as your troubles

threaten to leak

through your eyes,

but it feels weird

to cry at a place

that is not your home,

and it also feels wrong

to lead a flood

to your home-

it is yet another worry

you do not want to

cry about here.



every night you dream

about the day

you are going to have,

so living through

the actual one

feels like such a chore,

for you have

been here before,

but once again

you have no control

over the way

the day unfolds,

maybe that is why

you cannot tell

what is real anymore,

maybe that is why

you do not want

to fall asleep anymore.


“For years now, I’ve wanted to fall asleep. The sort of slipping off, the giving up, the falling part of sleep. Now sleeping is the last thing I want to do.”

Chuck Palahniuk, Fight Club

A Sweater

there is nothing quite like

an oversized sweater

to disappear into

in cold, December nights-

your thoughts, for once,

an unraveled skein of yarn,

your world nothing

but a soft, woolen cloud

that is in no rush

to throw you out,

maybe this is what

warm and safe spaces

are all about.


Featured image by Pexels

The Other Normal

Three minimalist poems about everything and nothing in particular:


Poles apart

Not magnetic

No sparks

Static charge

Fizzles out.



On my mind

Like yesterday

Today as well.


There too,

Here as well.

No escape.

Since ages.

Forever as well.


A crowd

To silence

The voice

In the head,

The voice


The crowd



“I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.”
Fernando Pessoa


a whimsical little feeling

traces a full circle,

makes a full round,

changes blues

into purple halos

that take just a blink

to fragment

into shapeless floaters

that indent

an otherwise smooth

and flawless display,

before disappearing

and melting away

to become another

impermanent thing

that runs in a circle

only to fall off the ring!”


“Being temporary doesn’t make something matter any less, because the point isn’t for how long, the point is that it happened.”
Robyn Schneider, Extraordinary Means


it is downright unfair

to be known for

the way we look,

and not for

how much of ourselves

we pour into the world;

a girl with a silly,

skewed ponytail,

a boy with glasses

too big for his face,

a woman with a wild

look in her eyes,

a man who wears

the same shirt every day-

a girl can have dreams

aligned with her mind,

unlike her ponytail,

a boy can see the world

a lot more clearer

for his age,

a woman can have

wild passion for

the pen and the page,

a man may not want

to spend more

than he makes…

our looks might

be the cover page,

but they are

never the preface.



I have been looking

for you in odd places

where contrasts invoke

more dread than joy,

not many smile if they

find crimson glisten

against the expanse

of white – blood drops

against the snow;

a shudder runs

down the spine.

I have been told

that you can be found

in far less

sinister circumstances,

like in the scatter

of everything benign,

but I have not

been very lucky

to make you mine.

I am scared

that you might be

too rare a commodity,

and that you could

only be acquired

for an impossible price;

I have been looking

for a change,

the spice of life,

but I think

it might entail

a complete redesign.


Featured image from Pexels

“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.”

Robert Frost

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