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Bridges and Burns

With all the rages
And the riots in my head,
I burnt the bridges.
I burnt them all.

With all the overthinking I mastered over the years,
And the words I have gathered,
I verbally exploded.
I said it all.
Unhinged and unfiltered.

With all the quirks I have left,
The tiny swords I crafted,
I poked my own heart,
To let the poison out,
To squirt the venom
And to banish all bad.

I burnt all the bridges.
I cut all the ties.
Standing on the tower of ashes,
I sing the hymns of heroes,
The songs of the gods.
In a whim of my boldness.

Mediocre Heartbeats

My heart aches
For the mediocre heartbeats
It creates.
For the relentless noise
It jumbles and hassles.
My body loathes
The second Monday
More than it detests
The real Monday.
My head mourns
The throbbing aches
My face is half asleep
Raving in the deep.
Yet, my heart unceasingly beats.
Riveting in loud voices.
“I am alive!” It yells.
“You’re alive,” it reminds.
And it aches.
Mere existence aches.
Void survival echoes.
And life continues.
Life goes on.

Sip and Sway

Oh my dear, please come by,
Let us sip and sway,
Till we tire and sigh.
Run, cross the field
Before the day ends
We shall drown our sorrow
In the desolate meadow.
Come, make haste,
Do not be late.
The sour of the day,
Cannot stand in our way.
Together, we feast in the hey,
Denying the mist ,
While envisioning the ray.
We drown. And drown.
And then we float,
To the heights and the beyond.
No, this is not a folly.
Nor a waste of a night.
The toils won’t abandon.
The work shall remain.
Yet, before the new day comes,
We shall drown the sad
With the feast of the vine.
Oh my dear, please come by,
Let us sip and sway,
Till we tire and sigh.


I would’ve poured my heart out
But who would want to see my broken heart?
My bare, scarred, and marred heart?

I would’ve said it all
But who wants to hear the unending rants?
Who shall be interested in naked minds?

I would’ve done it all.
But who likes a do it all?
A know it all?

I would’ve would have it.
But I didn’t. And I shan’t.
Maybe I’m lazy.
Or too busy.

What could’ve been,
Or would have been,
Might have been better.
Or worse.
It is all uncertain.
And that’s a might.

Cleanse. Rinse. Free.

I cleanse my defied soul,
Me defamed, poor, strunged self.
I rinse it on the altar
To edify the blemishes
To brighten the stained smile,
To smooth out the contours
Of my heart, soul, and face.
I cleanse the burnt ashes
Of the days I have burnt,
I rinse my frights,
My worst nightmares,
My raging angst
With a mere survival.
And now I’m freed.
I cleansed. I rinsed.
And I am free.

Cynic Heart

From the depths of betrayed trust,
Unbecoming fright
Of feeling left out,
Unloved and abandoned,
My cynic heart utters
The pessimic fret,
The sarcastic tunes,
And the unending jokes.

My wounded heart is plagued
In regrets and resents
For ever believing
And confiding
In anyone else, but not I.
And it sighs
A deep, sad sigh
Brewing a cynic chime.

My beckoned heart is antagonized,
For being a human once,
For uncomplicated existence,
For having a finesse,
Unyielding passion for living.

Now I sing along
The cynic mantras.
I chant the the rues
And overflowing despises.
Just to flaunt the distance,
The miles I walked
From the rest of the world,
And my old self.


I am outgrowing
The tiny world I have
Created for myself.
The minimized outfits
I have sewed for my thoughts.
My realm is shaking.
The blocks are rattling.
And my limbs are stretching.
To feel the extended world.
To writhe in the beyond.

Is this maturity?
Or is it just curiosity?
Have I known more?
Or do I just want to explore?
Am I a god of my little world?
Or have I just lost my hand
Over my own island?

I do not know.
I don’t suppose to know.
My thoughts outgrow
The former things I know.
And here I stand, staring
Not beyond my infinitesimal window.


Whenever my pen touches
The leaves of my notebook
I write.
Unstoppably. Unendingly.

I don’t suppose I’m a writer
For my words keep trailing off
Of my head.
My thoughts, unfiltered.
My heart, crumbled.


We are not writers, are we?
We are imposters
Faking to be writers
We are thieves of moments.
Moments that should have been erased.
Hypes that must’ve been removed.


We write.
With our bleeding fingers,
Into the walls,
Onto the papers,
We keep raining the letters.

As it is.

I removed my spectacle
Hoping to see the universe
As a whole.
The world
As it is.

Between the dark and the light,
The cold or the hot,
Or between the thought and the act,
There, I stood straight.
In a complete realization.
Or a sense of fascination,
I, maybe, in need
To recede from this body,
To rise and float
In other altercations.

Perhaps the glasses
Were only the start
To see the world
As a fact,
Not a personalised puzzle
Or a riddle.
It existed, exists
Until it halts.
(Or they say).

The Past is Over

It is not the past
That beckons us, is it?
It is not the realm
Of yesterday, that bothers us.
The past is past.
It ended.
What haunts us is the now.
Our present.
The leftover of the ceased.
The past we never parted from.

Tiny Chains

It is the tiny chains
I despise most.
The minute addictions
I can not abandon.
The giant faults and wrongs
I can erase.
The visible cuffs
I can easily break.
It is the itsy-bitsies
That I cannot condone,
Nor can I hid from.

Yellow Morning

The sun simmers.
The light glazes.
The day awakens,
At full brightness.
And the morning shreds,
The half gazes into full.

In a yellow morning,
I feel my pupil widening,
My thoughts, abiding,
To see beyond the scars,
The wrinkles and the grazes,
Into a full ambiance,
And a genuine bliss.

A 4 Minute Song

It’s a 4-minute song.
My life, everything.
This nuisance.
Also, the reverence.
It began abrupt.
And it will halt quickly.
The interlude shifts.
The pendulum alternates.
All the excitement.
All the pain.
It’s all confided,
In a 4 minutes song.

And all in the while,
As it enfolds before me,
I close my eyes,
I sway and waltz.
I shut off my mind,
And heed it in my soul.
Feel it within the anchors of my heart.
For it quickly ends,
Before it even begins.


One must not live,
Under the hedonistic imperative,
Nor beneath the derogative of irreproachable happiness.
All for what, to survive?
Or is it to thrive?

After all,
We are doomed to reconcile,
That we, in fact, are,
Unsalvaged, yet untethered.
Fetterd, yet freed.
Crossed and vexed, yet unhinged.
Unyielding, and yet traced.

Whatever [however] it is,
Shriek the unease
And rinse the wrath,
With confined fire
Un-succumbed mirth,
And untraced smoke.

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