Give me my pen

Replace your words with my pen
Take your conversation and give me
A blank sheet.
Leave my pain and go your way.
For the art of conversation has left me now.
The words have run dry.
I cannot speak nor do I wish to.
For fear that it. Might. All.
Come. Pouring. Out.
Not a single one came in any case but this,
Is not a cry for help.
I only want to draw it out in ink.
And display it as a masterpiece.
I have a jar with a tight lid on it .
You can never see the skeletons crawling
Inside the black mass of chaos.
Go your way, I have nothing to say.
What a time to be alive?
What a time to be.

  • Random thoughts. I do appreciate everyone and anyone who wants to talk to me though about anything. I love it.


I was never one to believe they were the same.
Until it happened.
Until my heart happened upon serrated edges of broken glass
And thermo cut wires.
Not even after the strike had been crossed through my tally marks
Did I entertain the notion.
My heart could take the pain, why else would it beat so?
Even now, my heart seeks
A crafted tailor to rectify the bullet holes in my beats.
You see, I’m a hypocrite.
Not wanting the commitment. But wanting it. All the same.
My heart happened on them.
Insouciant minds always searching for flowers of all kinds.
Wanting the finest taste
Of each and every one they could latch unto.
And so; be it jumpy,
Ragged notes, the sound of my crux still beats a clear tone.
I can’t blame them. Not I.
Amiability in the flesh, always seeking to please the bees
that came, some in groups.
Unknown to each other and one by one, discarding drops
Of their honey,
After tasting the nectar, on my flower, drip, drop.
The taste of which
Never goes bad in my mouth. I’m not sanctioned that luxury.

Empty Corners

In the empty corners of my mind
I’m enslaved.
In the empty corners of my mind
There’s nothing flowing,
No inspiration,
No ideas,
No spark!
A prison of my own making
Empty and destitute
A cloud of mist encompassing my mind
Slowly pressing down on me
Assaulting my delicate space
In the empty corners of my mind
I’m famished
Starving to gain knowledge
Yet I’m full
Bursting to get out of my little bubble
In the empty corners of my mind
I’m running full speed yet,
Going nowhere
The mist curls, revealing a silhouette
An artwork of despair
So painstakingly beautiful.
Blackness descends with no forecast
A blanket of emptiness
In the empty corners of my mind
A light appears at the far corner
A spark is created
Ideas come with haste
Inspiration at last!
A tidal wave of emotion
Feeling and strength soaking my mind
A sense of life
In the corners of my mind
I am liberated.

  • This is the first poem that I ever officially wrote and saved for myself. About late 2011. It all started with a little writer’s block…


It is so hard being happy,
Or perhaps thinking I am.
It is so hard hating myself,
I would rather not feel at all.
But I seem to do one or the other.
The latter greatest of all.
God! Help me find my serenity,
Help me feel at home,
In this shell of a soul.
Mashed gaseous explosions of black and red.
My favorite colors.
Or perhaps, colors I have to like.
But I would rather hate myself,
Because I know there’s no one else to blame.
So forgive me if I hurt you,
Forgive me if I’m cold
Forgive me, I beg you.
I promise, I hate myself more.

The War I Started

*This short story was one I wrote for a Literature exam during high school. 7th of March, 2012.*

I crouched lower, my feet cramping. Gunshots whizzed above me, wildly aimed. Stomping of feet, shouts and cries bombarded my ears rising to a high excruciating tempo and then dropping again. Combat leather boots appeared in front of me, searching, searching. Then they were gone. My heart thudding at a manic speed, I inched back as quietly as I could as I heard airplanes fly above me, their blades beckoning me to come out. I am a shadow, a black nothingness. I strained my eyes to see again through that hole in front of the darkness I was surrounded by. Light was streaming in, yearning to dissipate the void that squeezed in upon me filling up my mind and enclosing me like a cage.

Another one bites the dust, there it is. The sound. A shot sounds out, a scream is followed and a man is down, in all directions.

I close my eyes, center my mind and I can see the beginning of the end. The war I started. Colors shifted and and changed swirling to match that dark place, the mood thickening, then it changed. A kaleidoscope of exotic bright colors filled my mind, and I saw the future. I see it all. I relaxed, my tensed bunched up muscles releasing their hold. I knew I had to end this, my mind focused on that thing; I became an avatar. I shifted closer to the light, my ears picking up the sound of a voice. The voice. Her voice breaking, she called to me. A shot rang out, a terrible mournful scream followed and she was silent.

Everything went too upon that silence, the hope, the bright colors, the dream, yearning, searching. The gunshots. The airplanes. The leather boots. The light shining through this dreadful painful darkness.

My mind heavy but my head light, I could see nothing, hear nothing, taste nothing but salty tears that silently ran down from my eyes. Everything was over, everything was lost but I knew as I closed my eyes to be still forever, I couldn’t end it. I had lost the war I started.

Tomatoes and Tears

She saw it with her own eyes. She didn’t want to be here, not now. She wanted to rewind, go back to her words and unsee this moment. She despised it, the itching feeling creeping around the back of her neck, quick hot and cold flashes running through her body, her primary instinct telling her to flee. Her mother stood in the kitchen silently weeping as she sliced tomatoes for the stew. Isabel hid just outside the door, afraid to make a sound, watching her mother beg for relief or help from herself. Isabel saw it all in slow motion, the tears sliding down her mother’s cheeks, like a diamond, clear and pure, each hovered in midair till they splashed on the counter, breaking the illusion of strength. Isabel knew her mother didn’t want her to see this, eyes puffy, red with loneliness; hands steady on the knife, body still. The picture was surreal, and what a telling story it told. Everywhere was quiet and silent but the atmosphere that filled the room. Vividly one could see the sharp continuous echos of pain, the strongest smell in that room was the stench was loneliness.

Isabel retreated quietly, almost tripping over her laden feet to get away from this silent chaos. She escaped to her own mess in her room and proceeded to sit on her bed and think. She sat there for the next two hours, mimicking tears from earlier, cascading down her face. Her mind was surprisingly clear, she understood her mother’s tears, and hated that she did.

  • This came to me earlier on today at like 3 am, it’s an extract from my book. That has no title, currently.


Bear with me guys. I’m so sorry. I’ve been meaning to keep up with this weekly but life has been so hectic and hellish for a while now. i’m gonna try harder. And instead of focusing on poems for now, I’ll alternate between poetry and short stories.