I find that my imagination flourishes with the  lemony scent of lemons,

That on rainy days, as the skies open up and pelt the crusty dry earth, my mind wanders,

And on calm starry nights, as my myopic eyes try to make out the different constellations and I pull a solitary act, words turn over in my mind.

At that moment, it doesn’t matter to me where a word goes, or the fate of my imagination,

I am somewhere between reality and oblivion,

That space of  anonymity is where I found you,

Hiding between my lone words, struggling to come out into the agreeable vicinity,

We are the same at that moment, yet terribly different,

It is nothing and nothingness at loggerheads,

The fight to get you out into the open is bumpy and lethal,

Bloodlust for the longest of days,


I like to discover things.

I discover, that, the Big Bang was really noiseless,

That the lemony scent I love so much, would be sweeter than strawberries,

That each time I glimpse a full moon, I always see the same side..

So now, I discover you,

Tall and lone.

Solitary and nuclear.

Venomous smile and lanky frame.

A fine relationship with your feline friends.

My imagination halts for a second…my heart too,

I am stepping off a high cliff uncertain whether the parachute will open or not,

It will be a bad bloody fall or a bloody good fall,

And as the air whooshes around my ears and the watery wind blows into my willow eyes,

I suddenly realize that the Big Bang must’ve been noisy after all,

And you are there to break my fall.

Neatly and timely seconds before I hit the ground.

A bloody good fall it appears.

I feel a happiness so profound that my lingering fear skides away into the green-eyed universe.

I am here now.

You are here now.

There is a promise of more to come,

For you have peopled me.










The imprints of my glasses on the side of my face tell a story,
A riveting, yet harmless story,
But a story nonetheless-
A story of endless routine,
A story of unacknowledged complications,
A story of a life disguised as tough crosswords and complicated puzzles,
A tall-tale of restrictions-
     Restricted emotions
      Restricted need
      Restricted completeness
In all this, my vision is painfully blurry and it barely notices the endless posibilities of life around me,
There’s a potentially entertaining lover’s quarrel just two metres from my restricted perch,
There’s a crawling baby guffawing toothlessly at nothing in particular,
And the flickering lights in a nearby abandoned building would be considered creepy by the next normal person,
But I don’t notice all these-
I don’t want to notice-
The indifference is comfortable,
I don’t even notice the rapidly swaying door I’m presently walking into-

In two lengthy seconds, I finally understand why writers before me have said that the universe, or God has a sick sense of humour.
Or more accurately, the heart wants what it wants.

I understand these exclusively cheesy commentaries when you bumped me right out of my absent-mindedness,
And suddenly it was like the rivers had burst their banks and the waters hurried to drown anything in their wake,
My shifting gaze met your piercing one and my heart burst at its seams,
You reached out two strong arms to steady me and a genie escaped its enclosed bottle,

I felt. I felt. I felt.



triction did not exist in my vocabulary.
I let the emotions consume me.

Affliction and confusion were the first to assault me,
Then like a burst of light and sun and oceans,
Reckless passion and something that felt suspiciously like raw nerves started a wild inferno in the pit of my stomach,
I stepped back-shocked, for the impact was staggering,

My glasses, askew from what had become my favorite collission in my history of clumsiness, slipped and clattered to the floor,
They went unnoticed,
For presently, I was in a hypnotic trance,
I felt steady fingers at the imprints on the side of my face,
And I knew there was no going back to  restricted indifference.



Most people would refer to my numerous fascinations as normal. Typical. Ordinary.
But to you, ordinary never existed when it came to me. I was alien. Everything about me was starry.
My fascination with the Holocaust Period, my enchatment with the Titanic enchanted you, the spaced out gaze I got everytime I looked at the great orb that is the moon as it covered the earth with its pale light, my urgent need to traipse on the surface of the moon and somehow inscribe our mark-proving the existence of our love; was hilarious to you.
You would throw your head back and your shoulders would shake with mirth at my insistence that we had to make it to the moon.
You’d remind me that I didn’t even love anything Science.
And that realization made us sink into a crumpled up mess of hysterical laughter,
And so we resorted to painting the moon-
An oily canvas and paint-filled faces later, we presented our artificially real moon to the world,
It was yellow. A palish yellow that reflected in our eyes,
It had rocky edges and a bit of greyish paint on the sides,
Science had suggested that we include the greyish sand,
So on that night that we painted the moon, we respected Science,

Nights like these when the moon is crescent make me horribly nostalgic.
I am now strictly fascinated by full moons-another thing that you would have found alien.
I keep our fake moon in the ceiling of my room,
It creates an illusion that even the moon rises with the sun,
It keeps you here.
It creates an aura of your presence.
It reminds me that your ashes are not floating, or sinking somewhere in the Atlantic,
For one short minute,
Our fake moon brings you home.



We were a vast risk,
Me, with my bipolar personality,
A rather trying attitude-
An inexplicable temptation for anything forbidden,
And you…
With your astonishing lack of emotional involvement,
Your readily available uneasiness,
And a private penchant for horizontally stripped shirts;
We were a wrong strategy,
A strange concotion with a depressing logic-
A striking contrast-
A bizarre coincidence.

We were two souls reluctant to admit we were a ticking bomb,
Our attraction was chaotic-but we tried.
God, did we try.
But what will reastically happen, will realistically happen,
You were suddenly unsatisfied,
I lacked a sense of responsibility..
I was unfamiliar to you and your new situation,
And there we were, at an unfortunate crossroad,

And when the bomb exploded,
It was grisly. It was dark.

I watched you saunter off into the sunset,
And my heart lay lifeless at my feet.


Chat  —  Posted: May 14, 2016 in Uncategorized
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Posted: March 9, 2016 in Poetry
Tags: , , , ,


Dear Diary,
Let’s call my heart a progressive patriot,
It has finally caught on!
Or has it Diary?

Its cheerful wink and confident gait excites my usually dreary soul,
Its beat is inches steadier,
The pulse is far from restless,
And the warm blood sings in my narrow veins;
It HAS caught on Diary.
Why does it still write him unfinished letters that his dark eyes that are like chunks of frosted ice will never read?
Why does my patriotic heart still forcefully exchange e-mails with my rebellious brain forcing us to remember that he liked his coffee black and lukewarm?
I had hoped that we had forgotten that he preferred his white Napoleon T-shirt to his bottle green hoodie,

Diary, I’m terrified that my heart still remembers our first kiss,
Our first quarrel, then several more.
My heart is supposed to have got wind that like the proverbial mysterious ghost, it is unseen.
Unnoticed by his dark eyes.
But in its usual fashion, it will defend itself and declare haughtily that it is part progressive and part traitorous.

But still Diary, I swear- I PROMISE that it has caught on!
It’s simpler.
It’s easier to believe.
Someday, it will not remember his blank stare,
His neat handwriting,
Or his penchant for frigid weather.
Presently Diary, my heart has slipped off from my chest, it is strictly perverted and needs psychiatric care.


How To Kill a Poet

Posted: February 18, 2016 in Uncategorized

Ergo, Ego

Broken bones, heartbreaking poems,

And heartbroken poets trying to break bone.

They said things that almost broke my funny bone

But I yet smiled. Tragedies are a joke.

They painted the world dark red, and gave us tears to drink,

Stuffed rocks of salt down our throats and filled our IVs with ink,

Flipped the world upside down so New Zealand was old,

And preached such venom to grammar, she woke from her coma.

Bold or stupid.

And still they wrote, still they spoke, these new chiefs.

Shouted in the streets till the avenues would lose sleep,

Till the skyscrapers peered down from the blue sheets,

For this day, they’d see crowned the new king of loose leaf.

When the ink ran out, they filled their pens with blood,

And when the paper was filled they tore at the walls.

Oh what a colourful day for their sorrowful ways.


View original post 75 more words

UNexpected ExpeCtaTIOns.

Posted: October 11, 2015 in poems, Poetry

And she gets…bored. Rather easily.
Her sleek boots tap steadily to the ticking of the clock,
Her clear eyes are set straight on the still silhouette with irritatingly dulcet tones on the opposite side of the table,
Her slim fingers are wrapped tightly around the chocolate coffee mug,
Any more tightness, her veins or the mug will pop,
The clock ticks away,
Maybe he’ll unravel his amazing side bit by bit,”
Just a matter of time,
The clock ticks away,

“Maybe he’ll unleash some funny dosses of useless banter,”
Some up-to-date scam to excite her,
And the clock ticks away,
Still, nothing.

He sees the grimace behind her pretentious grin-albeit subtle,
“Maybe she’ll ignore the awkward way I push my glasses up my nose,”
“Maybe she won’t smirk again when I say she’s as beautiful as Cleopatra, “

“You’re as beautiful as Cleopatra, “
That smirk again on her perfectly sculpted mouth,
She sighs.
He sighs.
She says, “This is going to sound incredibly heartless, but you’re boring, “

“Well, so are you. “