My Summer Poem

Warm and sweet like Summer Rain,
Your touch brushes against the tips of an intrinsic soul.
Like the lake that glowed at the ‘Happening.’
Happening of Sun breaking through the thick clouds.
Running along the field full of beautiful daisies.

Occurrences of my dormant, leftover emotions sprouting.
With the rest of the contents of uneasiness in the
bucket sliding down.

Innocence sinking it’s teeth into your charm;
The way one scoops out the largest chunk of a mango
and keeps it on the tongue
relishing the taste of a long lasting snack.

You’re the summer, the meadow, the blossom I forgot to wait for
yet you arrive in time.
You’re like my Summer Poem.

My heart in isolation

A broken heart is usually mended in isolation.
Like Bukowski said.
“You get so alone at times that it just makes sense”
At 3:45 am, I’m
waiting for the morning to come
waiting for the night to end
waiting for my heart to mend.
It all makes sense;
the things I’m drawn to
the people I wanna answer back to
the searches on internet I wanna go through.

I read about writers.
I read what they went through.
I read they all weren’t accepted the way they were supposed to.
Why does it feel familiar?
From where did
Plath, Woolf, Bronte, Bukowski
find words to let them swallow whole
or to swallow us whole?
Where did they hide themselves?
that they outshone everyone.

These are the places I go to
in isolation.
These are the people I re-visit
in isolation.
My heart aches from the hurt
and eagerly wants to find shelter from that pain.
Words make sense sometimes,
and sometimes they don’t.
My fingers itch to write more
but can never catch up with my mind
Or the heart
Not sure where are these words and thoughts coming from?

In isolation, I see my real self
Unprepared, unveiled, angry
because my own heart betrayed the rules and is aching more than it was supposed to.
It exposes a layer of vulnerability
to be cut through and dig out
the trash to be thrown away.

My heart wants to sing melodies of well-being
My heart wants to dance on the tunes of contentment and bliss.
My heart wants to drink and trip over to the seventh heaven.
My heart isn’t sure if it needs any ‘him’ or ‘her’ but
It, so ,freakishly, wants to be mended.
At times, my heart gets so tired of the hurt.
That even the excruciating pain isn’t able to make it suffer anymore.

~~ My heart in isolation



When the mirror saw her story;

She looked tired from a distance,
worn out from carrying the weight
on her back constantly
to keep everyone happy,
bending to the whims of others
maintaining balance and peace.
Avoiding her own intellect
she reluctantly flowed along the
other’s will because even her own people
didn’t struggle to gauge what she was capable of.

She used to be baffled
when people didn’t understand
the meaning of keeping their own words

Though she didn’t expect much
yet some needle-like voice stung her
and always said ‘I told you so’.
There were days she ignored, but then
sometimes submitting to her inner voice
she started off again
preparing her own tiny world.
Not being able to build beyond a sea castle
she finds herself again
being dumbfounded,
very well aware of the consequences from the start
of her castle being washed away
not because of natural ways
but her own people trampling
over it again and again.


But when that mirror saw her up close
There was a different side of her
existing only in the wild imaginations.
Far from reality but a sacred, truer side.
Though her body didn’t
but her soul radiated enormous confidence.
She might be socially inept
but in front of that mirror
she let her soul win over the body
in the most beautiful, inspiring ways.

Dancing her woes away
or the struggles,
or the pain she had to endure
while trying hard to be accepted by others

There, at that moment
she celebrated herself to be free of shackles.
admitting herself the most beautiful being
while breathing freely.
When most people were afraid
of facing themselves
No one could beat her
in accepting herself the way she was.


For this sight
her mirror wished, begged
to come out of her shell
and show the insensitive world
what a sensitive, caring, honest, blunt
soul is capable of.
Enough hiding behind the curtains
it’s her show now
she must come out and play
the way she is designed to play.

Like the stars…

You’re like the stars in the sky

I saw in my childhood
twinkling, smiling down at me
assuring me of a beautiful darkness.
That the places I choose to be
I’d be followed faithfully
with a poetic hope
that nights are
as influential as the light.