Falling Apart

I try to shove it aside,

a strong sense

of resignation, but it feels

different outside

in the world today;

everyone walking beside me

is quietly splintering,

and I can tell

as tiny shards

of foreign thoughts

leave scarlet ramifications

inside my weary eyes,

for they sting

a lot more than usual;

I try to blink

the pain away,

but it stays,

and I am afraid

that my bloodshot eyes

will betray me

by giving away

everyone else’s secrets today!


“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.”

Henry David Thoreau, Walden

Featured image from Pexels


I sleep

with the windows open

curtains pulled off

from the rusty rails

the faint glow of the moon

does not get in.

I walk

with the prison gates open

inside the rooms

conjured up from memory

not a soul moves out

not a soul moves in.

I watch

out of a still life painting

the bland reality unfold

and quietly percolate through

places-shaped holes in people

not fitting in.


“Some things come with their own punishments.”
Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

Free image from Pexels


the air outside
is scorched,
burnt into existence,
with locusts
on sidewalks,
reeking of
a malady
unseen, uncured,
painted in sorrow,
with grief…

the air inside
consumed by
the thought of
the air


“In my heart there’s a peaceful anguish, and my calm is made of resignation.”
Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

Featured image from Pexels


I feel bad for the weeds

that had to make way

for the roses;

I miss the earthy, folksy

fragrance they’d release

into the morning air,

the occasional

dandelions amidst

a green disarray

with their utter disregard

for the aesthetic,

and their resolve

to take roots

in places where

they shouldn’t have

found themselves

to begin with,

a solemn beauty,

subtle and fierce

at the same time—

just a few things

that the roses,

with their obvious charm,

know nothing about.


“The beautiful is always bizarre.”
Charles Baudelaire

Featured image from Pexels


I bet the mitochondria

inside the cells in my brain

are probably the only things

that make the most sense

in an otherwise imprudent,

awry, and capricious head

since the miniscule,

circular DNA in there

is purely my mother’s,

and I am grateful for that,

but I wish I was more like her-

composed and perceptive,

even though my heart does

break a little

every time I look in the mirror

and the all too familiar

worry lines on a face,

that looks quite like my mother’s,

stare right back at me;

I hope it is a good thing, too.


Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers, motherly sisters, motherly fathers, and to anyone who’s like a mother to someone! 😊❤

My previous posts dedicated to mothers can be found here and here.😊

Featured image from Pexels


I step out

of my head

and trip over

an intrusive thought

that must have

followed me,

but when I get up

and look behind me,

I find out that I was

the only one

who had fallen

flat on her face;

I am the only one

who falls

all the time,

no haunted idea

gets far enough out

to make an utter

fool of itself,

and maybe that is

exactly how it is

supposed to go—

life should mean more

than what I hide

in my head…

I should mean more

than my crippling



“Live to the point of tears.”
Albert Camus

Featured image from Pexels


a few silver strands

stand out amidst

the raven hair

as if they foretell

the spectral events

yet to unfold

in a life well-lived,

or at least lived

with sporadic bursts

of intense curiosity,

despite feeling like the salt

that has been left inside

a tiny shaker

for too long,

but a tender, little

idea did slip away

and kept bouncing off

the walls, floorboards,

and the ceiling—

I have been here

at the same time as you.


Imagination is the only weapon in the war against reality.”
Lewis Carroll

Featured image from Pexels

Into the Night

I bet there is a cricket
In my hair
For it is unusually quiet
In my head at the moment
And this unfamiliar buzzing
Is somehow reassuring,
And the off-white glow
Of the moon fails to stir
Any woebeogone emotions
As I walk without a purpose
Into the night
That feels like velvet
Against my skin;
I do not feel strange
When weird things happen,
Because life is too mystical
To make sense all the time.


“In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.”
Robert Frost

Featured image from Pexels


It felt right.
Not to need.
A person.
Our own person.
Both the rescuer
And the rescuee.
One person.
Same person?
What if?
Both quit?
No person.
It might still
Feel right.


“It is one thing to lose people you love. It is another to lose yourself. That is a greater loss.”

Donna Goddard

Featured image from Pexels


We have spent most of our lives

Lying low, secluded,

And holed up in ourselves,

But there were quiet moments

That would engender

A profound sense of attachment

Even though for a little while,

The moments for which,

In spite of ourselves,

We would always keep

The doors open

And earnestly make room for;

We watch the years go by,

But we still find ourselves here,

Consistent in our anguish,

A lot more cloistered than before,

But those exquisite moments

Do not show up anymore—

The world grows around you

Excessively and furiously,

Especially when you don’t!


“Most everything you think you know about me is nothing more than memories.”

Haruki Murakami

Featured image from Pexels


I keep it hidden

In the folds of sleep,

For I do not know

Where else to keep

A feeling this fraught

That it falls in a heap

If you dare speak

About it when you are deep

In throes of reality—

Most dreams make sense

Only when we are asleep!


“Seeking what is true is not seeking what is desirable.”
Albert Camus

Featured image from Pexels


I cannot bring myself

To look up these days;

I am scared that they

Will not meet my gaze,

I am afraid that if

And when they will

Look my way

The glint of detachment

In their faraway eyes

Shall give them away,

For it happens every time

When someone surrenders

And looks up to engage,

Only to find out that they

Were not quite ready

To hold a gaze.


“We are sometimes dragged into a pit of unhappiness by someone else’s opinion that we do not look happy.”

Mokokoma Mokhonoana

Featured image from Pexels

Spring Cleaning (Retouched)

Every year

A few genuine feelings,

Instead of getting swept

Under the rug

As per usual,

Are accidentally spring-cleaned

Out of the house,

They get to leave, at least.


“You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep spring from coming.”

Pablo Neruda


I no longer know where

I am supposed to go,

but the world is still in motion,

and it feels inane to live

with a terrible, crippling feeling

of profound dissociation

that doesn’t subside even when

a strong dose of reality

hits the cubital vein…

I speak my mind

and it makes tiny ripples

in the placid waters

that on the surface remain,

and the heart behaves

like a wildflower-

it wilts in autumn,

acts coy in winter,

and blooms only in the rain;

there has to be a cure

for such madness somewhere

for not a thing here lasts forever,

not even the chronic pain.


“Forever has no meaning when you’re living in the moment. I wasn’t ready for that moment to end.”
Ellen Hopkins

Featured image from Pexels


At dawn, my right arm wakes up

Before me,

Jolting the hand attached to it

Into action,

Frantically hunting for the source

Of noise–

I have broken one cell phone

Like that.

At noon, my feet tend to experience

Tactile hallucinations;

An army of invisible ants marches down

My toes

Bringing the earliest hints of weariness

To life–

I take them out for a walk

Like that.

At dusk, my heart latches itself

Onto memories

Most of them old, insignificant,

Probably untrue

By playing them out like

A record–

I let it be weird and wild

Like that.

At night, my eyelids have a hard time

Staying shut;

My eyeballs too excited to

Stop spinning,

Playing a slideshow of images that don’t

Require projection–

I can sleep with eyes open 

Like that.


“I believe that everyone else my age is an adult whereas I am merely in disguise.”
Margaret Atwood

Featured image by from Pixabay

To be Unglued

For once, I would like

To be a piece of paper

At the mercy

Of the wind,

To stay somewhere

Only for a few seconds,

For I am tired

Of being a tape-person,

Sticking to places

For way too long,

And not leaving

Until I am yellow,

And often not leaving

In spite of that.


“There is nothing more important to true growth than realizing that you are not the voice of the mind – you are the one who hears it.”
Michael A. Singer

Featured image from Pexels

A Mercurial Swing

I watch it blow up

Into smithereens…

The air pregnant

With awkward syllables

From words that exploded

When forced into a rhyme

Without a good reason,

The only justification

For their plight

Being the sudden shift

In the weather outside

That had dressed up a bit

To impress a few hearts

That notice such things,

And maybe the day

Called for it, too,

For only once in a while

You get consumed

By an overwhelming urge

To celebrate those

Who leave lasting imprints

On multitude of souls

With one indelible verse

After another, and only once

In a while (not quite) you end up

Miserably failing at that!


Happy World Poetry Day! ❤

Featured image from Pexels


on an overcast day,

in one clear moment

amid so many ill-defined ones,

something held together

by a makeshift adhesive,

breaks within you for good,

and you cannot see

the world around you

the same way anymore!

afraid of the loneliness

that such an occurrence

begins to whisper into you,

you run screaming into crowds—

finally entitled to your own madness!


“The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.”
Maya Angelou

Featured image from Pexels

No Sleep Tonight

Do not look down

On me if I don’t

Manage to sleep tonight,

Let me toss and turn

In peace tonight,

If the book that I

Have brought to bed

With me does not hit

My face tonight,

Do not assume that I

Am deliberately reading

The night away,

And if in the morning

I show up for you

In spite of what is

Happening to me tonight,

Do not dare comment

On my bloodshot eyes,

For a sleepless night

Should not get to define

A person who sleeps

Like a log otherwise.


“What hath night to do with sleep?”
John Milton, Paradise Lost

Featured image from Pexels


I laugh hysterically

At my own madness,

At the audacity

Of a flimsy thought

That had risen

Like a phoenix

From the ashes

Of my archaic ideas

That had caught fire

Without provocation

Many moons ago,

To throw the outside

World into disarray—

It is utterly ridiculous

To be governed by

Your weakest thought

And to make

More sense than before!


“Where does a thought go when it’s forgotten?”
Sigmund Freud

Free image from Pexels


I feel as if

I am not here anymore,

I am but a hole

In the space

That I used to

Occupy before,

And when a part of me

Feels around for

The rest of my being

In the great oblivion,

It finds nothing

To hold on to except

For profound nothingness—

I cannot complain.


“Anything can happen in life, especially nothing.”
Michel Houellebecq

Free image from Pixabay


you called me

to let me know

that you were fragmenting,

and I, being someone

who can fall apart


retrieved the sweeping brush

from the pantry

of horrors-

not even an ounce

of sanity

was salvaged

from the brokenness.


“We die a little every day and by degrees we’re reborn into different men, older men in the same clothes, with the same scars.”
Mark Lawrence

Featured image from Pixabay


We had barely glanced

At the glorious menu,

Before deciding on

A meteor shower,

And to wash it down,

We had ordered

Some fluorescent rain,

But after only a few spoonfuls

We had felt quite full,

For it was more than what

Our subdued lives could contain.


“There are no uninteresting things, only uninterested people.”

G.K. Chesterton

Featured image from Pexels

The Room

the rugged, old desk

in my room

is a proof of a life

lived hunched over it,

and my window

stays jammed

on most days

as if tired of ushering in

the outside life

into this quiet room

that has no choice

but to pretend that

it is a world

of its own,

and my shelves

contain places that I

have broken into,

escpaed from,

and have been

banished from at times,

but they keep

gathering dust

as if this room

is a lot bigger

than all the worlds

they contain within

their glorious pages,

and I am here too,

outgrowing the room,

but just like the desk,

the window, and the books

on the shelves,

I do not leave.

I cannot leave.


“The secret of a good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude.”
Gabriel García Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude

Featured image from Pixabay

Blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑