Photo by Alexander Popov on Unsplash

Cold morning, warm afternoon,
Hollow hearts, dense streets, on which
Vrooming bikers, late-night teenagers,
roadside junkies, vacillating drunkards,
pathetic taverners, market blades,
Tattooed necks, bloodied arms,
Point three eight colts, abracadabra knives,
Oversized hoodies, heavy hoods.
All despised professions,
utterly disgusting humans,
The outlaws, not-so-suitable males,
Yet all-ever-desired ones.
My cold hands, seething winter nights,
Fresh chilly sheets, nonchalant sights,
“Rub your palms to make them warm,”
What of the heart who still r’mains cold?
Longs for the booze, its intoxication,
That rush of weed,
Bought out love from make-believe partners,
That is warm, that is enough,
Make me the outlaw, for I can’t stand
this rusty sight, this cold night,
Make me the outlaw, my old wright.

Photo by Darya Ogurtsova on Unsplash

The most beautiful girl I ever saw;
baggy clothes, messy hair, a bit clumsy.
All parts of her charm and not a single flaw,
she would later become my everything,
at the moment no one could foresaw.

When I first saw her she shyly looked away,
That was by far, my life’s longest day.
I misunderstood she was keeping me at bay;
just let me know her a bit better, to God I did pray.

We began to know each other and days kept passing,
greetings became small talk and we kept talking,
people began to suspect but we didn’t know;
in our hearts a great love was amassing.

a poem on the premature turning to ideology of Youngsters

Photo by Florian Olivo on Unsplash

He is young,
he is naïve,
Beliefs and faith,
flow as in a sieve,

Ideology prevails and is mandate,
one with no ideology,
is but a shame.

He buys ideology as he buys clothes,
the one in fashion, the one cheap
is what he chooses.

Learns all the rules,
learns all the names,
sticks himself to it,
yet he knows it’s lame.

Fights for it,
stands for it,
if questions the faith,
he’s unfit for it.

Opposes others,
while he knows not what they represent,
neither asks himself,
what he believes, where he stands.

But he is naïve, and under…

Half-Heart from wallpaperaccess

That huddle of pathetic losers,

those hapless, forgotten rejects,

who say it was pure because it was one-sided.

Those tainters of reality,

those immature artists.

Those lost causes,

those lost faiths.

Blamers of fortune,

Denizens of dark.

Open their hearts,

and tear them apart,

for the sadness that flows on land,

and the crime that persist,

nothing but their seed,

………… their fruit.

Double faced artist, from Sydney Sims (@fairytailphotography) from Unsplash.

Wrote a piece last night,
felt nothing, how can it be so.
Worked on it for two weeks,
whole nights, after day jobs.
Just to reach this point,
why am I not feeling anything.

Have to show someone; sir will you?
Sir reads, anxiety makes dizzy, heart falling out,
Sir praises, sir is family. Happy but,
annoyed, doubt: sir’s biased, I want honest,
Sir will you?, This sir’s not family, an honest professional,
sir reads, anxiety makes dizzy, heart falling out,
words come out: honesty, sir please.
“Hmm honest”, sir thinks “Its bad”
tears stream down, annoyed, perturbed,
angry, “You know nothing, just rude, just rude”
Snatch from him, cry “rude”, run.
From the reality, from the nightmare.

This is a facade, all a facade.

Photo by Warren Wong on Unsplash

The day started and boulevards brightened,

people roamed and chatted and teased,

and they said “she is a girl show some respect”

and he said aloud to the clouds, can’t I be a girl then,

at least wouldn’t have to pay for respect.

A viewpoint take on the ever-presenting problem of Indians and Thank-yous.

“I love your sweater, Mr. X”
“Why thank you, Mrs. Y . Yours is lovely too”

“I love your sweater Mr. X”
“Yeah, quite expensive this one, cost me ……, bought it from Kashmir……”

Photo by Debashis RC Biswas on Unsplash

I don’t know what are the names of these gentlemen, but I can assure you the second one is from India, not through the Kashmir reference but through the lack of thank you in his comment. You would know this too, if you are an Indian, that Indians in all their sweet oriental loveliness and graciousness always do forget to say “Thank You”. …

Photo by Richard R. Schünemann on Unsplash

I sought the East and East precisely,
the gleaming lights and white halls lively.
The bloomy wind and the Maiden’s wrist,
her florid rind and those whistling Liszt.

But the West is West and not the East,
no bloomy wind, no maiden’s wrist.

But I fear if it is a deceit another,
and in the East there is an East another.

And I fear if it is all a Wide West,
and my perseverance is but another test.
Perseverance to seek the righteous path,
and I fear it’s all the patience I hath.

And what I fear is if I yield and yield in the West,
and seek not the rectitude but the rest.
Would I have passed thy holy tes’
or committed an unsanct transgress.

Photo by Ameen Fahmy on Unsplash

I had never met my father, parts of me did but I never, and he talked through messages- his tears. He cried whenever he wanted to talk and I understood what he said. I don’t know why.

They never met-my father and mother, not in front of me anyway but in a far, far place that I could see but can’t reach. I was seven when I first saw it- the place where they met every day for the whole day. Always far, far away at the end of my sight. I realized this place moved every time I moved…


I write short stories and about reading and writing. Sometimes in mad reveries I do write about philosophical foundings.

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