Month: July 2025

I wrote this poem about a place I visited in Spain two years ago. While I was talking about how that city contributed to making my trip so special, I was told that it had met a flood and was now not that happy place I associated myself with. That’s when I realised I am fortunate to experience what’s now gone. The place is gone but the memories will surely remain forever.

No one knows.
No one knows when you’re looking at something not knowing it’s the last time.
A person, a place NO ONE KNOWS.
Till it fades like an old chime, forgotten with time.
Suffer through thinking, knowing what’s going on in the world right now.
It’s not a battleground, a misused land, leaving stories untold,
Now the memories root in mold,
No, it won’t just go down in flames.
No, you won’t be all alone,
Everyone has to play this game.
You might feel lost for a while,
But I promise —
You’ll find your home.
I smiled at what has slipped away,
Now broken things are here to stay.
Once full of joy, now just a name –
You know what they say,
Don’t cry that its gone,
Be happy because it happened,
Something you never imagined.

This is a self composed poem inspired by ‘The Road Not Taken’ by Robert Frost.

While going to school,
Sitting in the bus all alone
Pondering upon a 1000 things, I saw a heart capturing road
The road I wished to take
The road I wanted to walk on
It gave me peace and a sense of calm
Maybe because it wanted wear
I gave all my heart to the road
Wishing to leave my footsteps on it
Holding the hands of that one person on whom I could rely
Walking on the road which I always wished to walk on
And oh! With a sigh I got to know that this wished-to-be-taken road was a leading street to someone’s house
That someone whom I never knew
But I wish ever I could, go and seek the permission…being able to walk on the road
Which I always wished to.

The Streets Lay Barren this Morning – Pahalgam Attack

The streets lay barren this morning.

Quaking yesterday.

all quiet for now.

the loudest quiet…

Of a breath hitching

an old wound. Re-twitching.

 

Torn apart.

Clothes.

Bodies.

Souls.

 

Torn apart.

I stand upon this road.

The smell of blood and bullets lingers still.

Lives and lies spilled upon the hill.

 

Suffocating air, up in the open grasslands-

Throat choked by hands.

And faith by demands.

Men treated like grains of sand.

Acting on command-

 

And yet. The street will stand.

The trees will sing of injustice,

the children will recite,

by the passing of the night,

there’ll be arrival of the light.

 

But the tale sings still,

still here.

A chapter of death,

a warning.

Streets filled with mourning.

The street lies barren this morning.

 

Pain(ting) – of a menstruator

I’m the craft itself.

A pause. A period. Then a halt.

A certain “art” within,

Yet it’s a flaw, a fault.

Art. A white canvas below,

Waiting for color to bleed in,

Color of love, blush, roses and: blood.

Red’s holding a dead seed in.

My insides, a tube,

My body a brush, going fast and slow

The rhythm paints well, pains well,

Swifting in a twist, a clot, a flow,

I’m an artist unrecognised,

Sentimental. Cramping. Fainting.

In the muse(eum) every month,

Stare at my Pain(ting).

Bleeding, all of me is bleeding
With my deprived soul chained to the excruciating shackles of interminable anguish
As the demons caged deep inside my putrefying soul are let lose
I let them lurk in the dungeons of my once-tranquil mind
Unveiling the counterfeit cloth of illusion tightly wrapped around my sore eyes
They feast on my affliction, unforgivingly tearing apart the very intellect of my existence.

Bound to embrace his cold, defunct body with a fading sagacity of once-peaking affection
I beseech for mercy, to the Death that shall come for all
I implore for the clemency I see diminishing in Death’s eyes
As his body lies festering at my sinful feet
Which had once trampled him in their march towards the well that was said could quench the unending hankering of gluttony in a venal man’s mind
My aching ears yearn to hear his soothing voice again
The voice whose destitute cries they had harshly neglected when they needed to be heard the most
Death cruelly laughed at the miserable sight of my shedding eyes
The eyes which could not shed an ounce of tears when he was unjustly slaughtered

Death burnt my ego to ashes
Despondent to face the humiliation he was made to face with silence, my eyes could not meet those of death which were fervent with a fire of vengeance
Desperate, I pled for death
But death did not come for me
For a stone-hearted destiny had taken them away
He, who was dead at my feet, the justice that once prevailed
They, who were burnt to char, the children of hope who once played in the orchards of my benevolent heart
The peace, which sang the ballads of love and serenity to soothe my sensitive ears
For it was I who had died
My rightfulness that was crushed to pieces
And Death, who just chuckled at the thought of taking away
The life of a morally dead person.

Falling down and still holding myself,
Why is it always me?
My look-alike, my dusty bookshelf
I can’t unsee.

Every teardrop filled with chaos,
What is the fault with me?
Feelings feel lost,
My soul wants to flee.

I wear a smile, but it’s just a disguise,
A mask I made so none can see.
Will someone ever look past my eyes,
And still choose to stand with me?

No one ever asks me to stay,
Is “I’m here” too much to hear?
I don’t need to lead your way,
Just want someone near.

Will you accept my flaws?
I’m not the one for you
People see you with dropped jaws
They see me, they want me to renew.

Trying to heal,
Dying to change
No one knows how I really feel
I’m unlike others, is that strange?

Butterflies here and there,
Butterflies everywhere.
The land of which I dream,
Where a butterfly is the queen.
The place where they stand,
‘Is this majestic land’.
Filled with beauty and magnificence,
This dream never ends!

The gardens are filled with flowers,
Where the rain peacefully showers.
The cool and light breeze,
Which blows over the tall green trees.
The rivers flow gently,
In which you will find lotuses plenty.
Filled with butterflies which are grand,
Don’t you want to visit this amazing land?

Hope is indeed such a fickle thing,
For it makes the bleakest of winters spring;
You may fall down on the life’s slope,
But you will get up and that is hope;
In the dark, all you do is grope,
But you will find light and that is hope;
It will always make your heart swell,
But its absence is much like an empty well;
It can find what is lost,
Make us forget the cost;
Its intoxication is stronger than a drug,
Yet, it is a greater thief than any thug;
But hope, do wrap us in your shawl,
So that we may be shrouded from all.