He would rather,

Nestle in her tranquil smile,

Let her soft fingertips,

Trace his jawline,

Than sit with me,

On the thorny ground,

And pick up

My broken pieces,

Buring his nails

In the coarse dirt

And the soot

From my bleeding soul;

I blame him,





4 days.

Since the last fix.

Throat parched,

Thirst unquenchable.

Food tastes of ashes,

On a cracked tongue.

Limbs shiver,

Craving for a dose,

Breathing uneven;

Vision blurred,

I feel the world revolve,

All too well.



For a parasite,

I loathe to my gut,

An illusionist,

Who tampers my reality,

A snake,

That poisons my hope,

A dagger,

That bled me countless,

A leech,

Who sucks joy out of me,

A quake,

That shakes the ground beneath me,


To consume again,

Would be killing myself,

Come to contact again,

Will maim what’s left of me.

Yet my veins dangle,

Yearning for a glimpse,

A sign that you exist;

Some tiding,

To console my empty vessel,

That you are not entirely

Of my mind’s concoction.

And remind myself,

Of what hell’s fire it was.


The Option


I’m his option,

The one he opts from,

But never opts to;


He’ll exhaust

Of the blithering crowds,

At the movies,

The deafening sounds,

Of the games,

The insipid flow,

Of the television;


Then maybe,

He’ll remember me –

A heavy hardbound book,

Once opened,

Skimmed through,

But never read through-

Wipe away the dust,

Straddling over me,

Then maybe,

He’ll smile;


To see

Something familiar,

To keep him company,

On a drizzly evening;

Maybe he’ll reopen me,

Maybe he’ll devour me,


And for once maybe,

I’d have made him smile.




One step further,

He said,

Holding out his hand to me,

Few steps ahead of me;

I walked,

Along his lead,

Then leaped,

And fell,

Head before heels;

He stood,

By the brink,

Still holding my hand;


I clung, on to him,

Trying to pull him, along.

The grip tightened,

He struggled,

To break free,

He loosened,

His arm,

And watched,

As I dropped,

Deep into a pit,

Of muck and thorns,




He peeps by,

As I try to heave,

My breath;


He’ll stop,

Lurking by;


I’ll stop,

Feeling myself.




In a decade, or two,
I’ll coerce my eyes open,
When the alarms have screeched for hours
And the sun’s scorching my bed.

I’ll curse and tumble down,
Hurdle to the door,
Kicking aside dirty laundry,
Hopping across last night’s dishes.

Piles and piles of books,
That I once wished to read
And threads and shreds of life
That I once wished to live;

Would be scattered in every corner
Covered in mounds of dust,
Plundered by worms and lice,
Exhausted of waiting.

Somewhere outside the four walls,
Life must have tried to peep in
Through the blinded windows
And the bolted door.

I’d unbolt the twenty locks
Open the door just ajar
And squeeze my head through
Just a tad bit.

I’d stare at the outside,
Squinting my eyes at the light.
I’d stand there a moment,
To see if you were there,

Standing by my door,
Waiting for me, at last.

When I see the doorstep’s empty,
I’d crawl back inside.
Tumbling upon dishes and laundry,
Kicking away piles of books

And the shreds of life, left.
Collapse on my unmade bed.
Curl back into a fetal,
Covered in thick blankets,

And await the next day.
And the next.