My sorrows are a tsunami of toxins
mixed into the water of reality;
and I
have been drowning in them,
my paralyzed limbs
have lost the ability to raise a
commotion to keep me afloat,
so my numbness stealthily
gives in to gravity, to let me
fall, touch the ocean floor.


The Open Book

If this world is a library, and its people books,
then I am the forgotten volume of heavy words and complicated phrases-
covered in dust, with my yellowing pages,
tucked at the back,
where nobody goes.
You will only be able to find me,
if you look for me-
it might be hard, searching for me,
setting me apart from my likeness,
but I hope you don’t give up.
When you do find me,
I hope the long paragraphs of my history do not bore you;
I hope you don’t put me down.
I hope you turn my pages, with hands as delicate as those tending to a bleeding wound.
I hope you read between my lines.
I hope you discover me, word by word, to be the one to fit your liking;
And if I don’t fit, I hope you don’t read me on halfheartedly-
I hope you don’t continue to hold onto me with the intention of putting me down.
I hope the words that span my existence interest you, and paint pictures inside of your head, the place where I now want to be.
I hope you devour me, with every syllable that I silently serve.
I hope you find yourself completely obsessed with me, unable to put me down,
and so we spend days and nights together,
because although you want to take it slow,
you want to get to know me just as fast.
I hope that when you know you’re inching towards the end,
you slacken your pace just a little, so the both of us have time
to adjust to the loss, that we will have amassed,
as you toss me aside and go looking for another
rhyme that doesn’t end as tragically as this one;
look how my ability to find love is so
abysmal, despite my dilapidated state and spine,
reckless poetic verses and metaphors,
darling, I still failed to make you mine.
“You see now, my love?
I’ve never really been a secret diary-
All this while,
I’ve been the open book,
that no one is willing to read.”



Free Falling

I hate love-
For I do not stumble into it,
Neither do I purposely choose it,
(Not that I don’t have a say);
I fall- helplessly and relentlessly
As if pushed out of an airplane midair
Jerked off from the aisle to be suppressed beneath the torrential blast of air-
(Just the way you let love consume you).

The dangerous plane that flies my heart (and along with it, me) across the universe in rotations,
Let’s me fall-
From far above the ozone, where stars lie-
Falling past the phase
where my lungs cannot contain
but seem to burst out,
Due to the apparent
perpetual absence
of oxygen that exists beyond the atmosphere.
It allows me to keep
Falling through the clouds, swiftly:
As if sailing through a tsunami wave on a speedboat-
Uninsured and unlikely to survive.

This hopeless fall, is rather a plunge that neither I nor anyone else pushed me to take-
But yet I fall, gradually, across the sun beams dancing on my skin;
Across the moonlit nights and starry seashores,
And past the phase where air balloons, in the blue sky, appear to swim.

But eventually, this fall, becomes treacherous-
It swerves me past picturesque landscapes and happy sights.
But just when I begin to slowly forget the ephemerality of happiness as the basic essence of life,
This fall bumps me into a mountain and has treetops bruise my skin-
It takes me to the glamour of a high rise building and next slams me against each one of it.

For this love, and the fall it ensues ultimately brings bruises you can never erase with even the most expensive stationery,
This fall makes your heart fly across the world like an orphaned balloon
and lands it down on a carpet of thorns (repeatedly).

I fell, too, and I met that carpet of hurt and multiplied into brokenness within the split of a second;
Love took me for granted like everyone else, I reckon.
Tell me how, then, do I fall for a concept so tortuously complex-
One that can make me feel on top of the world one second,
and trap me in a cavernous cage the next?

Anxiety’s Choreography

My walls will cave in (just like placards stacked up horizontally fall back with the wind) along with every wave of anxiety-
Right then, I will fall short of words, or rather lose the intelligence of speaking-
Goosebumps, butterflies, shivers and my heart dipping into the cold Pacific won’t just be defense mechanisms.
My heart will appear to jolt awake and then dead repeatedly by the society I put myself in;
I will feel electricity running around in my veins, often sparking out of my eyes as the salty tears that trigger short circuits
The ones they say could be caused by the heat-
Indeed- but it’s also the cold, the wind, rain and the snow
Words like unknown, unforeseen and anonymous manifesting and getting under my skin- make my jaws quiver and heart dip.

Often my gut nudges me to stand and to speak and to, for once, not fear an omen before I deliver a speech,
But when I speak, though my mouth moves to enunciate what I remembered from the paper,
And as I attempt to collect and reflect my confidence through my features,
My fingers tremble as I try to fit them into my fists behind my back-
These legs shiver behind the pedestal, hidden under slacks.
For people think these mere trifles shouldn’t cripple the silhouette that I bear,
Fear of the unknown? Don’t be scared, scared!
My nerve ends nervously make my fingers dance as I attempt to provide them a temporary occupation-
‘Cross your fingers, close your fists,
Pretend to text, you’re better than this.’

So dear me, oh dear me I am sorry-
I am sorry for constantly holding you back;
Sorry for all the chances I did not let you take, all because
I sometimes tend to diverge my faults out as through a prism,
And have always been someone who can never jeopardize her pursuit for perfection.

Sorry, for the seeds of my anxiety have given birth to the roots of my skepticism-
For I paint doubt over every pretty scenery you etch in my mind,
My inhibitions and myself, thinking things over, rewind, rewind.

If I were Rapunzel my anxiety would be the tower that holds me encapsulated- a hostage;
With no demands whatsoever, only a plain, ruthless, endless need to cause damage.

When A Love Poem Goes Wayward

The substance of this matter relates, very simply, to how I cannot-
I just cannot,
Put you within the same brackets of the equation where I relate love to the stars and butterflies in my stomach;

I would like to apologize, in advance,
For my inability to roll out words that will most appropriately fit you-
Or rather my presumptive disability of coining neologisms tailored just for you.

The substance of this matter relates, very simply, to how I cannot-
I just cannot,
Put you within the same brackets of the equation where I relate love to the stars and butterflies in my stomach;

I cannot weave you into the same thread of love where I put beads of magic;
It is, I’m sure cringe-worthy how to me, you aren’t the moon that shines onto my dark nights;
You’re rather the dream catcher to my nightmares.

I cannot sing you a ballad of love, for
No tune can match the frequency of the way your voice sounds to me.

Yet I can strongly feel, along with my pulse as I write this,
How our love will not be the main road that’s laden with stop signs and lined with tree tops-
No, I believe it will be different.

But you must notice how my speech is garnished with the presumptuous future tense,
For I dream for a love that awaits the transformation into reality-
You are the beautiful lie I tell myself each day.

You see, I have cloned you in my imagination, hoping
Somehow this bizarre technical development would materialize you in the real world.
But you put seas and continents and countries between us,
The distance that cannot be bridged by any feeling or words that spring up in my head.

Although I have analyzed multiple laws of attraction,
And I do have a clue about how atoms vibrate to send across intangibles;
My experience with endlessly thinking about you has materialized into nothingness and reaped no rewards.

So I am sorry, for I couldn’t use my words to stop you from leaving
Or better still, just halting you in your place;
Just like sand, I couldn’t quite gather you up when you had already started to slip away.

Yet I love you, and I’ll send you waves and signals to wherever you’re supposed be;
Yet I love you, even when you feel a hundred light years away from me.


(Image credits: Google)


To gather all the experiences one comes across, all in a huddle and
Nestle them inside one’s heart,
To soak them up into the deep crevices of one’s being,
Only to pour them out again to be etched into eternity;
To have a respite from speech,
but still express oneself exquisitely;
To conceive, conjure and collaborate past experiences and knowledge-
all for the creation of one immaculate piece of literature.
To convey all that you feel,
but with so much precision that you strike the chords of someone’s heart.
To not only share your experiences, but to have other people live and relive them with you;
To help them feel and touch all that you had felt and touched-
To be yourself not through what you say or how you look,
but merely through your words.
To have the power to change minds and ignite hearts.
To be the ignition switch
The one that could set off fireworks and light forest fires in a heart
Just with the strike of a match,
Or rather,

the nib of a pen.

Pen & Paper

But I yearn
for that day still,
when someone will arrive and
cause me a temporary acquittal off of my poetic forebodings-
To trace his fingers on my skin like
reading all the alphabets I’ve been etching onto blank sheets,
forming my thoughts into mere inklings.

To be the pen to my paper.

The clock strikes nine
And I’m sitting by the bed;
Wondering about journeys taken, musings and information fed-
Across conversations in the pub
Or those over a cup of coffee
Imagining how if I wasn’t here
so many things wouldn’t be the same about me.

my nights are always reserved for pen and paper,
And quiet nothingness lurking around me as I spell-
poetry into empty pages
and impress my curvy italics onto the sheet as if
draining all my emotions into a deep well.

But I yearn
for that day still,
when someone will arrive and
cause me a temporary acquittal off of my poetic forebodings-
To trace his fingers on my skin like
reading all the alphabets I’ve been etching onto blank sheets,
forming my thoughts into mere inklings.

To be the pen to my paper.

That day,
I will turn into a white canvas
Waiting to be touched by brush strokes across my skin;
and I will let him write
all his favorite stories
perhaps print them too, raw, on my skin.

Perhaps we could etch maps
And all the places we would like to go-
and for those few moments my mind will be at rest,
Curbed from orbiting across the world,
curbed from sprouting words out of emotions,
Not doing, for once, what it does best.

Yet tonight I lie alone,
Driven by desire for my words to transcend into truth;
My time decorated by rhymed verses,
spanning paragraphs across pages in a hand uncouth.