a rant.

why do some men

hold onto grudges

and stretch their aggression out like a leash
to curb the “lesser ones”?
why is anger,
their remote control;
and females the tv screen?
why don’t ego’s dissolve
so easily
as frustration steams out as aggression?

White Noise Soundtrack

is walking at their own pace,
to the sound of their own tracks
in a rhythm that
beats me slow and I
am still sifting
through unexplored genres and
none of which sound like me;
what is my sound anyway?
and what has any music
got to do with me?
some days i’m the
soft starting melody of
Stairway To Heaven
reverberating in an auditorium
that never deposits back its echoes;
it’s a metaphor for how
no one will ever understand me
in this world, or the other one
that Pink Floyd’s music takes me to
I am the operatic singer screaming
for attention in The Great Gig in the Sky
and in times when no one listens I
turn into the soft whispers of
Elliott Smith’s Waltz #2,
sometimes wishing I was
doing just fine hour to hour
note to note.
But i’m not,
i’m listening to She Used to be Mine,
looking at myself in the mirror
and crying because
the chorus is a little too much about me
and I wish it wasn’t because
it’s not fun relating too much to songs anymore.
I wish I was
just another story
no one had the gall to tell before;
but now I’m spread too thin across the lyrics
whispering into the earphones, singing back, under attack,
a little too exposed.

Get all the good music here:

Stairway to Heaven

The Great Gig In The Sky

Waltz #2

She Used to be Mine

Tell me which ones you like best!


Dear you,

I’ll meet you
when I’m in a place where
my peace and mourning touch,
intertwined in each other’s ends and beginnings,
stinking of remorse
in the perfect balance of white;
After having moved on from all that was,
waiting to trip over your imperfections.
Before stepping over the line, for once,
to seek a love that feels
more like sympathy and less like affection.


Story #12: I’m Not Real (The Anonymous Anecdotes Project)

I’m Not Real
They say that psychologically it takes 3-4 months to know a person.
But I believe that you know people
The very first time you meet them.
The kind of words they choose
After all those permutations and combinations of all the 26 letters of the English language.
The kind of look they give you,
Despite of being unable to maintain an eye contact for more than 5 seconds.
The way in which they sit a bit aloof
Just to maintain “the space”
Without risking the fact that you might just know everything about them.
People say that eyes don’t lie,
I believe it’s a lie
Because the only thing in human body that doesn’t lie
Is this patch of terribly tiny mountains on your flesh.
But according to behaviourists,
Children observe and learn.
So when I was a child, I learned that truth is never rewarded.
That human beings have multiple layers of flesh
To hide away their goosebumps.
So you know,
I became black-listed.
For people who too often searched for compliments.
For those whom I told they weren’t in love with me
That love isn’t a feeling that can be summed up in 3 words.
That the color of love is translucent and not red.
So that we could see each other
Destroying one another.
On the days I’m myself
I climb stairs of sophistication.
And stumble and fall down
Whenever I have someone to hold onto.
You see,
My hands do not quiver the moment I start reciting my poems.
Because I know I’m pretentious
And they are all broken pieces of different stories
Joined together.
And in their gaps,
I hide myself.
That artists are nothing but clowns in disguise.
We paint our face white
With peace, paradoxical to the cyclones we could never survive.
We apply an extra layer of red lipstick to our smiles
So that we get an extra syrup of attention
Over the icecreams we binge eat out of loneliness.
Because you know,
Deserts have been my first love,
And stayed.
And I just giggle about the way
People change the topics
As if they are standing at the sea shore
And I’m the tide.
They say that phobia is an irrational fear of something
And that it’s ok for me to cry in public.
But whenever I try,
My eyes get stoned.
The windows and doors of my house close down
As if there is an automatic alarm warning me of an intruder.
And I’m the biggest miser of them all,
For I cannot shed my possessions.
And I solemnly admit that I’m not real.
I fake my Hello’s.
I fake that I’m contended when I’m just holes
Into which people pour love
And suck it whenever they find a better place to invest it in.
I fake that I’m strong
When I have these tiny mountains growing bigger and conical
Underneath the layers of flesh
That are like the chihuahua barking over a terrorist.
I fake that I’m a child in this body of a 20 year old
Tired of people trespassing the line of control
Saying that they are refugees
And my empathy is a shelter for them.
I fake that I’m fake
Whenever I mistakenly behave as the truest version of myself.
So, agreed. I’m not real.
Just as you all aren’t!

When we talk about stories or anecdotes, we rarely contemplate them in poetic forms. But here is a version of someone’s reality, so unique and laid out in this beautiful verse. 

I can’t summarize or enlist my learning from this poem because I know each read has lead me on to a different interpretation, a different conclusion. But that’s what poems are. Open for interpretation.

So all I’ll say is this: how many of us are ‘real’ anymore? Every day, we’re going farther away from who we are. Tell me then, how do we learn to love, and be at peace with our real selves?


(The Anonymous Anecdotes is a project under which anyone can send me a memory, a story or an experience from their life that had a profound impact on them. It requires people to write their respective experience along with the way it changed them or their perception of life. According to the project, these stories are being published anonymously, with the intent of spreading a positive message and a hope that anyone who reads, relates or learns. If you’re interested, you can send me your story at ratti.priya5@gmail.com.)

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.”



Love. (User Discretion Advised)

I will never understand how
people let the word love 
cascade down their lips like
a meaningless sound,
blurted out in responses that
could have done without the indulgence.
The casual air around
a feeling that can potentially either
disarm you of your sanity for the length of it,
or rob you of the knowledge that the universe extends beyond their aura,
deserves to be destroyed.
Love should be used with caution,
like an imported good that carries instruction:
think before you jump into it;
don’t let it consume you, and the like.
Love should be treated
like a delicate relic that must exist in protection
from the eyes of all those who may want to rob you off of it.
Rehearse it like the sound you exude in happy sighs,
But don’t make it as easy as exhaling.
Let love belong to the conventional corridors it once lived in;
Let it announce itself with the fragrance of roses pressed between Bukowski’s poems;
Let it manifest in whispers and handwritten notes exchanged under the table.
Save this combination of four alphabets for an occasion where
it becomes the one last piece of the jigsaw you make to win her over;
Use it to make up for the unsaid words;
and when you know all the pieces of the puzzle fitting together
need just one more to complete the picture,
that’s when you tell her;
I love you. 


I type rhymed verses onto my phone
and chase metaphors;
my dry days are free versed poems
and I’m forced into food strikes when my words don’t gulp down my thoughts;
I draw parallels between slanted lines and
call them straight as I
myself go on tangents, searching for
words to say.
I am a writer of thoughts and
speaker of my own mind,
but lately they have been withdrawing,
fading into the darkness,
hiding behind the blinds.
In a first, I know how to say
but not what;
it’s the knowledge of speech but
the ignorance of word.
So what do I do, when my
saturation point is not too much input but
no output at all;
what do I do when,
I want to shout but
no words would come out at all?