Try the appreciative-perspective glasses to see clearly

Have you ever learned

how to let go of the beauty?

Turning away from the rain,

Closing down the book,

no selfie on good hair day,

skipping drinking tea,

preventing siting on the bean bag.

Since we get to do all these

so easily,

We realise these are

happy-heart moments

until snatched away.

Life in bits and beauty is really pretty.

That one November night

It’s a November night. Someone confesses their love to you. You sit back and consider all the possibilities with this person. You text your friends, telling them how sweet that person is, bragging about their kindness and the energy wealth they bring into your life.

You keep the phone down and wait by it for that person to call. You think it feels good because it is good. You think about the next haircut you’re gonna get. All the restaurants you can visit together. And then in a split of a second, in a spur of a moment your mind races back towards the similar feelings you felt before.

That happy rush, that iconic courage to risk the world for this love. And that scares the daylights out of you. You admit everything you had been feeling, the text to friends, the future plans, an urge to pushback negative and see the light—all was a way to keep your brain busy.

Because you are still scared. Terrified—of being pushed down to the ceaseless storm of heartbreak and pain. You thought you got over it but that fear never vanished, it always had been there—hiding, crawling on the floor to grab you the moment it could.

You want to feel the love again, you wish to embrace the openness of those little talks under the tree, of those shared cups of coffee, of those uncomplicated, unwrinkled emotions, of no stretch-marks timidness but you forgot.

You forgot when did the wall around the chambers of your heart skyrocketed and became impenetrable that nothing reaches you anymore. It’s sad. Really sad. When happiness is knocking at your door and you can’t scream out I DON’T KNOW HOW TO BREAK DOWN A WALL.

But try. Trying makes things possible.


Believe it or not, we all live in the Kafkaesque world

The first time we met
we were hesitant to say Hi
We walked a bit together
on pavements coloured yellow.
You were wearing orange and I, gratitude.
The season was fall, the air was damp.
Far away someone played the piano
And we walked and walked
Liked we waltz-ed.
A world like this, a day like this
was in prayers and now in bubbles.
How I said my favourites were strawberries
How you said your favourite was Franz Kafka
We both laughed. Our eyelids happily closed

The fall is back again and
I read Metamorphosis
The helplessness, the hopelessness
the plot slipping from sad to miserable.
I sing a song with no tomorrow in it.
And It dawns on me
the meaning of the word
when you left.
You left me in a Kafkaesque world.


To rebel is to love…

The diary doesn’t hold secrets
It holds my rebel.
It holds my definition for you
as my favourite fruit,
as a platonic cat,
as any enamoured materialistic thing
with non-existent adjectives
making grammatical errors
along the way
misusing punctuation
but never you.
You my age of twenty-one,
You my little dreams,
You my 10 rules of winning in life,
You my sky and analysis of it.

I ain’t afraid if anyone
gets hold of my diary.
Cause it won’t make sense at all.
It doesn’t have to
Like my love for you.
No one can understand
but me.


World is a non-genre movie.

World is a non-genre movie.
Fall in love the one moment
dip your hands in death in other.
Mourn a loss, live in shadow
then get interrupted by a friend
snowballing hope through shoulder.
Merry & high sneaks
in-between the world-ending.
Dark and anger at the corner
of the street, hiding
Fights and heartbreaks
are blockbusters choice
Cigarettes and ashes
usually the way to die.
The world isn’t a fight
between good and evil.
it’s the misinformation of
how we spend our time
amidst chaos and dry living.
Sky, prism, waltz, balloons
Unread letters, burned bridges, 3’o clocks.
They just spin
And spin us all around
till we fall
till we are grieved
with a genre leaked
of a house we lived in once
of the swing no one remembers.


How the crushed flowers look!

‘There are too many flowers,
not enough vases.
Get some more!
The fairy lights are
supposed to form a crescent
like a Moon. Fix it.
Lanterns add a mystic
brightness to the windows.
Hang those at a perfect angle.
Hand out the pamphlets!
A special someone is coming.
Prepare everything.’

That’s how I ready my heart
when they are about to enter
for someone to feel at home.
That’s another story
It soon becomes a haunted house
of web, and, old wood and no light
When I hear them say
‘Ah! You again.’