Midnight Letters

Midnight Letters

Orange sunsets from crumbling porches
Take me miles away
To lanes, doused in perfumed memories
Of old books and damp walls.
Like dust specks on spider webs,
I have decorated my fermented thoughts
With arbitrary imitations
And follies,
Pretending they were of imperative consequence.

How long does it take,
For a memory to go stale?
Even paper boats come with
Expiry dates.

I’m an accumulation of cities
And I cannot wipe away
The stains
That clings on to my identity.
I am a slave
To this symbiotic equation;
I cannot dissociate from this obsessive need
To feed off your existence.

Don’t be afraid
When I’m uncontrollable on some nights;
I take time to recuperate
From nightmares;
For they have me pinned down at gunpoint,
As they sew their shadows on my back
Like a black cape.

18 February 2017

(image source: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/248894316882654168/ )



It’s 2.30 AM
And I’m struggling to find
To questions that have built a home
So deep underneath my skin that
My bones have turned into a basement
For hiding
From midnight panic attacks,
No better than carpet bombing in a war-torn city.

Yes, I am a city trying to recuperate
From the ghosts of my past
That left bloodstains on the walls
Of my blind alleys.
For when there is a war
Between your rationale and its stubborn counterpart,
You are the muted spectator,
Being mutilated
Struggling to make a choice.

In the dark room
Of silent and unconscious movements,
The sighs drenched in stupor are
Like familiar faces in a boisterous party.
And my rugged breath exhaled like melodies
Out of tune
Is desperately trying
To fall in sync.

I’m Alice, trapped in a Wonderland,
With a motley set of minor characters,
Rehashed from drab idiosyncrasies.
For the grin of the Cheshire Cat is waning,
As are the effects of the drink I took a swing of.

This is my Wonderland
And I’ve lost control
Of my realities.

11 February 2017

White Noise

White Noise

Watch me
A residue or an excuse?
Gnarling at the very
Of where it all began;
A handful of foam.

Have you tasted oblivion,
Perched on the
Edge of your lips?
I have taken swings
From the same bottle
With different labels,
Convinced my stupor
To adore the
In alternate realities.

Waking up with hangovers
In odious daylight,
Eyes besmeared with
Illusory tales,
Written in flashes of laughter,
Patchwork of peeling memories;

It is easy tuck
A suicide note
Between unsuspecting folds
Of bargained contentment.

I have
Crafted to perfection
My caged existence;
What remains are wisps of
Fragile Tales,
Like accidental perfumes
In cheerless alleyways.

8 February 2017

F r a g m e n t s

F r a g m e n t s

I am fine.
I have been fine for quite long


I cannot                    recollect when
The                                                       drape around my head







This is easy.

To not

Dis man tling one thought from                           another;
Who would have
Meandering through each fold
Stifled a different voice
An unspoken


Was gasping for breath
Crying for                    help.



Why do we crave to have our tales heard? Understood? Believed in?

My lies could be
Harmless truths








We all have
Our fire escapes

On how far

Want to


Do you see me now?
I am a






Taking up identities.
Cleaning up evidences.
Convincing myself, hard,
That this is


Amidst the wreckage
Of                         blatant                   follies

Palpable lies.

25 January 2017



But for a rusted lock.
A broken door.
A shattered pane.
Are you willing to forsake
That which you have been calling
Your home
Down to this day?

Yes, I still hear the winds at night
Wheezing noisily.
I hear my pillows whisper,
‘She let her dreams leak
And succumb into moist patches;
Who sleeps like that
Next to enemies each night?
With nightmares warped
From sun-danced dreams?’

But believe me when I say,
That I tried to sew them
With threads of self-indulgent beliefs.
Though I knew;
I could see the bursting seams.
How could I not see?
Scattered toys with sharp ends,
Piercing my feet…
Familiar walls with peeling paint;
You cannot paste them back
Or collect them like memorabilia.

You sweep them.

Under the rug, maybe?
Until next time…

How do you desert a place
You called home?
A home, assembled from skin and bones.

21 December 2016



In that street,
The lamps have dimmed,
The shadows, twist in themselves,
Contort into insomniac magpies
Hurtling towards darts of shiny specks;
Broken beams illuminating
The Shadow People
Made of tattered dreams and scarred self-esteem.

Their trinkets try to wrap hastily,
But sobs don’t rhyme
With the jingle-jangle of broken bangles
Neither do colognes mask
The salt of unspoken seas.
Barters made under neon lights
In an unlikely backdrop of
Unsteady harmonica tunes.

To the shattering of bottles,
Emptied in the hope of vanquishing demons;
Who knew they were knotted electric cables
In disguise?
Dumpsters overflowing
Reeking of selfsame horrors
As unspoken minds
Have let their thoughts rot –
Putrid carcasses.

And the first rays
Wipes all evidence without a trace;
A stage stripped
Of all realities.

30 November 2016




Can you tell
Fear, from the
Gradual numbness
Catching on to your feet?
Like brambles and nettles,
Do you carry them around
Like unconscious badges
From robust strolls in dewy morns?

Or when at nights,
You dive underneath
Your coarse blankets and linen sheets,
Are you cold, or in hiding
From your skin, weighing on you
Like an armour?
If your breathing does not seem like
The solution wine glasses are made of,
Don’t let it clench your throat
As a rope made of
Question marks would.



Does my blood remind you
Of war paints, war zones
Mourners, murderers?
Are you nauseated yet
By the acrid stench
That trickles down your perfectly arched back?
I hope the answers you seek
Lie somewhere among
The carcasses of your past identities
You now deny access through
Barbed wires of your present pretensions.

I’m out of tissues and blotting papers.

Several attempts later,
I hung around slovenly,
Strung of halfhearted melodies
And smokes mingled into
Frosty nights.



Is there a Rise without
A Fall?
Prison walls could not mute
My jarring thoughts, an
Antithesis to my public side.
The inmates leave,
Their voices remain
In dank memories of
Worn corners.

Don’t come too close;
It’s contagious.

16 November 2016