He was beside himself

With rage,

He had a lot to say

But only had

A single blank page,

And it had seemed

Quite unfortunate

To have no power

To change

The way everything

Was taking place;

He was brought

On the stage

While still being held

In a cage!

So he held it all in

And refused to engage-

They might call him

A sage,

But that’d be a mistake,

For a wise man

Never gives into

His rage;

A wise man is never

Defined by his cage.


Featured image from Pexels


I hope our worlds

never cross paths,

for you live

wrapped in silver,

moonlit, starry,

peacefully quiet

country nights,

while I wander

cloaked in ghastly,

bloodless, blotchy,

strangely tainted

urban lights.


“Because a quiet night is not the same as a silent one, a firm man is not the same as a steady one, and a bright light is not the same as a brilliant one.”

Tahereh Mafi, Unravel Me


please do not force me

to raise my hand,

I do not have the answer,

I do not understand;

I am only a speck,

and it all seems grand

to a person like me

who cannot withstand

a disdainful look,

a comment offhand,

for I have filled the void,

but I have filled it with sand.


We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.

Ernest Hemingway

So Far Away

I hope that tonight

a soft breeze rushes

through your hair,

and the crisp air

wraps itself around

your aching feet;

the starry sky

above your sleepy head

tries to keep you up

when the mellow sounds

in the background

are lulling you to sleep,

and I wish that you dream

the sweetest of dreams.

I hope that when

we get to meet,

you are at peace,

and you tell me

that everything

has been great for you.


PPhoto by Felix Mittermeier from Pexels

“But nothing makes a room feel emptier than wanting someone in it.”
Calla Quinn

Sleep Paralysis

If I could sleepwalk

Out of this nightmare,

I should vow never

To sleep ever again,

But right now

I am unable to move,

And no one hears me

When I scream,

And no one knows

How bad a dream

I seem to be

Wide awake in!

Is it because it is

Always half past one

In somebody’s mind,

And it is not

An unusual time

To go amiss

Inside your own head;

To be half-dead?


“I love to feel the temperature drop and the wind increase just before a thunderstorm. Then I climb in bed with the thunder.”

Amanda Mosher


sometimes what you

choose not to reveal

betrays you,

making you a spectator

of your own truth;

contemplating whether

or not to break

your own heart,

you weakly applaud

all the while dreading

the curtain call-

the final fall!


The Masked Days

I wrote this poem on this day last year. Not much has changed. I am getting sick and tired of having one (or two) masks on the entire day. It is not pleasant at all.

The no-makeup, plain-face,


Breathe stale air

Through layers of fabric

Or some thick, three-ply


Perfectly concealed stays

The permanent, unamused

Animated face, not unfazed

By a completely random

Unscratchable itch

Which disappears leaving

A definite trace – a new spot

Finding a spot on

The no-makeup, scar face-

The masked days

Have now overstayed

Their unwelcome.


Image by cromaconceptovisual from Pixabay

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