The truth of a lie

Have you ever been held hostage

By the power of a beautifully framed lie

Have you thought of going on believing

Till the very day that you die

Or will you fight to save your soul

When the river runs dry

Tell me, will you choose the truth

When the whole world goes awry


Said Unsaid

There’s a place where you lock away

All the things you leave unsaid

And if you ever fall weak

I’d like to somehow find the key

And then maybe


You’ll tell me

All the things you’ve left unsaid

And all the pain that you carry

All that grief that’s clawing at you

And all the venom that you’ll never spew

And then, we’ll replace them with memories

Of all the moments you’ve lived anew

And let happiness come through

Be still my beating heart

There was something here once

That’s long since ceased to be

It strived

It thrived

It leapt

But more than that

It felt

It loved

It wept

So, yes, there was something here once

That’s long since ceased to be

A heart, a life, a buildup of memory

And I,

I chose to put it out of its misery

The Invisible Hand

So happy in so little

So sad with so much

The gap between the haves and have nots

Is more often than not bridged

With what we call a smile

It’s a curve

And, at times, a curveball

It’s either served

On a platter

Or at a buffet, free for all

It carries with it the ghosts of unshed tears

Of trials, tribulations and all our fears

And silent screams of anguish

And efforts rendered futile

But they are what fuel and drive it

Through that very last mile

An ode to writing

Writing takes my pain and turns it into something beautiful. It draws from my sorrow and colours it with a rainbow. It sets me free and lights me up. It’s a hug from my mother and from my dad a chin up.

I hope I can do for you what writing does for me. I hope you can read this once and learn to simply be.

When it Rains, it Pours

I’ve experienced a different kind of monsoon this year. In a strange new city, amidst vaguely familiar people. I heard the pitter patter of raindrops falling against my window panes. I heard the thunderstorm unleashing at your end too over our early morning calls. The coffee tastes different, more fulfilling somehow. The days pass by quickly, less mundane somehow. And weekends, oh the weekends are divine. For on weekends, the rains truly shine. And on weekends, you find the time to be mine. If only for a moment, if only till it’s raining outside.