Mum’s the Word

I was just a girl

With a whole lot to say

But lips sewn tightly shut.

You gave me a pen

And a scrape of waste paper

And the stitches fell away.

Words flew


And oozed

Across the dirty, stained page.

By the time I was done

I was undone.

As I watched every surface

Slowly overrun with scribbles

I allowed myself to smile.

For I was just a girl

With a whole lot to say

But lips sewn tightly shut

Yet, till the time I have words

At my mercy

I’ll always find a way.


Thank God It’s Friday?

On a Friday night

Just like any other

I lay in bed

Without a single bother

The town swirled around me

A blur of coloured lights

People rushed around talking

In a murmured buzz

It was a downright circus, aye

Like a merry-go-round

Running at a nauseating pace

While I stood silently still

At it’s very centre

Strung to it all

Feeling its ebbing throes

Yet disconnected from the throng

Like a marionette

The world passed me by

While I, the very epicentre

Felt like an innocent, dumb bystander

For on a Friday night

Like any other

I lay in bed

Without a single bother


In the best of cases

You’d be alive

Without victories under your belt

And feathers in your cap

Rich, for your experiences

Richer, for your successes

Richer still, for all your failures

Better now

Than when you started

Hopelessness’ despair

You’d have thwarted

So do it

Give it your all

Take life by the horns


In the worst of cases

You’d be alive

With more than a breath left in you


There are words

And then there are words

Written to stir souls

Spoken to ignite fires

Resonating with grit

And the force of desires

Some others still

Create lyrical melodies

Their harmonic composition

Curing fearful maladies

And all I can do

Is soak them all in

Read. It’s a good habit, I was told

But I gladly beg to differ here

Do more than read

Feel. Feel the essence of every word

And you’ll be one with the world.

Why A Poet Series Introduction – Long Time Coming

There’s a question I’ve been asked more times than I can fairly remember. Why poetry?

Honestly, I’m always at a loss to answer that. There’s no reason. There are a hundred reasons. It’s an emotion. It’s a vocation. It’s a compulsion. It’s a combustion. Where do I even begin. Where do I end, if there ever is an end to this explanation. And thus, I’m rendered dumb. Every single time.

So, I did what I do best. I wrote it down. Bit by bit. In multiple pieces. It’s still a work in progress. But I believe there’s decent amount of words out there to officially introduce you to my series titled “Why A Poet?”. I’m linking the published works down below. Hopefully, I’ll keep updating this list as and when new pieces are written.

All I can say is that it’s a patchwork quilt of mismatched squares. I can only hope it provides you with enough warmth though.

Here goes nothing (just kidding, please be kind!) –

  1. Why A Poet
  2. Why A Poet #2
  3. Why A Poet #3
  4. Why A Poet #4
  5. Why A Poet #5
  6. Why A Poet #6
  7. Why A Poet #7
  8. Why A Poet #8

Let me know what you think, please?

And your own thoughts on why poetry? Be it to write or to read or to just feel and imbibe? I’d love to know!



Are you loved?

If a writer falls in love with you,

You’re never going to die

He’ll immortalize you in words

From down here to the sky

But what of the agony

Of a non-writer in love?

With no words at his service

To spell out his pain

Much more in number than your heart could ever contain

Would you cry for him then, my dears

A bucketful of tears?

Eye Spy with My Eye

The things we think we know

Are the ones we know of the least

For its the things we don’t think we know

Which we make an effort to find out



And retain

So don’t tell me that you know me, darling

Tell me that you don’t

Atleast then I’d know

You’ll be willing to see me.