I’m just a passer by

I’m just a passer by
Through lanes of malady
Through chains of solitude.

Stop to hold the world
Better in my eyes
Small vibrations beneath the wall.
They would stumble
I could fall.

Interpretations of a sonic mind
Never at rest
Grows fond of the singular sofa
Kills what could be dead.

Larger in reflection
Easier to forget
Scars of remembrance,
Pretend to be shackled in words.
Created in a palm,
The water surpassed
Her worthless life’s work.

Vision and wisdom later
They closed where they began
Renewed hopes of wander and love.
I’m just a passer by, I’m just a passer by.


All is one
And one is all
All is hate
And none is love.
So much emotion
But none above the other
There’s ego in passion
And passion in ego.
What you see
Is fancy deception.

Fresh and strong malice
Tossing in my gaze
It burns and drowns into ashes
From ashes it re-awakes.
It’s hating,
In the neon lights.
Lights of smile
Of hope
Of joy
Why, the wonder ?
Such distance
Panic and panorama.

And a third time.
All smells of decay.
Do not know what is dark,
The streets
Or my heart.
And laughing.
Caricatures of sham.
And dicing,
My love for the grim.
Projectiles of pleasure
Run parallel
To the pain.
Across from the light
It stands,
Saved, yet again.

One More Step

One more step
And you’re closer
To life
In a warped form.
You’ll tell them
The stories
Of your glory,
Give them success
To gnaw into.
Even though
There was little celebration inside.

One more step
And you’ll be distant
From this failure
The one which hid another
Alike in it’s sort.
And another one
Claiming success
Yet betrayed profitable thoughts.

One more step from
Under the debris,
Of triumph
Over the unknown.
You are clasped
And released,
Only to be devoured again.

No convincing answers to
What was measured
In those alphabets.
To what did you owe
All the hours away
And into.
Empty promises
Soon filled out the corridor,
Plush rooms,
Filled out with people.
In it, you saw
The furniture of failure.
One more step, you heard.
And you walked.

Sunday Morning

Sunday morning,
I’m glad you came.
Lay low back home now
Chained to this lane.
If you don’t come home,
I’ll go insane.
Sunday morning, 
I’m glad you came.

Glance through the hour-glass,
Tricky specks of grain.
Holding tight the clasp
Of a buttery strain.
Sunday morning,
I’m glad you came.

Take you fishin’ on my boat now
Walk a walk with you.
Twistin’ my ankle
Say carry muffins too.
Sunday morning,
I’m glad it’s you.

Hurry back up hill
Lest you miss the train.
Hand you down your badge keep,
Don’t tell me your name.
Sunday morning,
I’m glad you came.
Sunday morning,
It’s not the same.

Hush Now, Hash Brown

Hush now,
Uncle’s speaking about potholes.
Listen, girl.
Don’t go about your thing.
What’s your business,
But to listen ?

Hush now,
there’s a lesson in progress.
Your questions are bran.
Ideas rule the world,
But they only come from a man.

Hush girl,
Give them silence,
If not a beautiful face.
It’s silly to want everything
Bow down and keep our grace.

Hush now,
There are people with ears.
Don’t give them words to say.
Quiet, girl.
The marks will fade away.

Let this gifted life
Sink and drown.
Stay still, go away in peace.
Hush now, hash brown.

Time to let the Chivalry out of the bag, mate !

gargle in grey

When someone offers to pull the chair out for you at a dinner table, the least decent thing to do is, sit.

Alas ! That was the last reaction I had when someone did the same to me. It was like he slapped my face with molten lava and then aired me through it. Yes, I get uncomfortable when men go out of their way to make me feel, erm, for the lack of a better word, delicate. Not that I do weights in the gym every alternate day. But for some reason, I could never conform to these ghostly rituals handed down to us.

The incident at hand is where I went frolicking about to a luncheon with a friend(read male friend). As we entered the seating area, the footman swiftly flew behind my back, towards the left and pulled the breadth of a splendid dining chair out. He…

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I know you loved, but have you loved enough ?

The clock shows a little before it hits quarter to 5. I’m half sprawled across my ginormous bed, trying to toss and turn myself to slumber, somehow not quite succeeding.

In a frenzy to find a purpose, my left arm reaches out to the night stand, fumbling through a stack of old, degenerate writing pens, and the right one ambiguously scales across the pile of books, who’ve mystically grown fond of the right side of my bed.

The exchange happens.

I look through my journal, something I have maintained since I could write sentences, although my devotion is admittedly uneven.

At a glance, my retired years(which aren’t too many, just enough to build character), granted themselves before me and I poked around. I observed how difficult it was to be someone the world finds charming, someone who satiates the conventional image held out blatantly, and leveraging this quotient of disparity, how there is nil fuss in evolving into yourself.

Have you ever felt living through life, thinking and doing things all along because you have been put on a pedestal, and expected to mirror the reflection of somebody’s unsteady, preposterous imagination ?

The answer doesn’t quite matter here, the question being rhetoric. Just for the record, we all have.

It is almost always a fulfillment to know that the circle of humans around you, look up to you and love you. Always something to feel warm inside when you are being counted on. People set parameters for you to indulge into, and no matter what, some of those people strike off no conditions on their list before loving you. Effectively, whether you make them proud or dishearten them, you love them, reciprocating theirs in much great a measure.

In all this poignancy and wistful exchange of affection, there stands but one question, nudging at me, and I’m disconcerted. Visibly so.

Have we loved ourselves, fairly and enough ?

Contemporary drama, in no way, leaves room for self introspection and perspective. For some, the space is defined by just that(shout out to Colorado). It has become too challenging to look away from the competition culminating into wars before us, and get comfortable in our own skin. We are always in motion, pushing ourselves through meaningless jobs, relationships, deeply convinced with the miracle of a MBA degree (the more overseas, the better), piling ourselves with over-achieving examples in galore.

They are not altogether redundant, and not for everyone. Exceptions, examples, tralala.


Once in a while, it is greatly helpful to stand back, way back and watch ourselves being tardy, irresponsible, emotional, cold and purely dawdle in self-awe. It is valuable because it makes us see the years that have gone by, as comforting streaks which have made us the person we are, making us love ourselves and accepting the fault lines better.

Be proud of what you have accomplished, revel in the success of the love you have accumulated in all the years, learn from your mistakes, and find dignity in your decisions.

Self love is self doubt, and only when we can doubt, can we hope to ascertain ourselves.
And not just shape a person who has succumbed to diktats, never fully acknowledging an action from a reaction.

While internet and media would, if given fair chance, transform us into Kim Kardashian’s sculpted derriere, let’s not fall prey to the mediocrity of standards set by people and seek ‘acceptance’, only to learn that no such term is acceptable to the world. This concept of satisfaction is as unreal to the world, as it is real to us, because such delusions can hope to exist only within oneself.

There is no ahead or behead in the game, there is me, who has to live with myself and my choices, and they sure as heaven, cannot be someone else’s.

In between the times that have so willfully attempted to hide beneath the decadence of years, I see that I have grown, grown up to love the versions I was, and the one I am determined to become.

I return my sword to it’s sheath, lucid of sleep, cocoa is next on this rogue mind.