A Handful of Sea

Shimmering water like your long hair in ripe golden sun

Words sweetly flowing through the breeze like Mum’s freshly fried eggs,

Do you remember the smell?

Of the tea laid out on the table and you always wondered why only elders could drink it and not us?

Waves going to and fro like that old broken swing on the mango tree,

Do you remember the voices?

Of gleeful laughter, of the winds blowing and the push on the swing?

And there I was standing amidst the chaos of all life that stirred around.

And yet there you were, breathing in and out, in silence.

What you see, is  just a handful of sea

You can’t see that the vast ocean resides in me.

~To Lost days.



I Forget

Sometimes I tend to forget names,

Bill, Ben, Becky, Benny?…… Bernard?

“Oh wait! I remember it’s Barry.”

Other times, I forget a certain shade,

Like how I want to say Crimson and the only colour that appears is Red.

Sometimes I tend to forget words,

Unwanted, despised, unappreciated?… unloved?

“Oh wait! I remember it’s hated.”

Other times, I forget where I keep things,

Like how I kept my keys in a box so that I could remember as soon as I pulled some strings.

Sometimes I tend to forget days,

Is it Tuesday or Thursday? wait… when was Sunday?

Other times, I just really want the days to pass.

Sometimes I tend to forget what I was,

Other times, I just really want to be how I am.

Sometimes I tend to forget who you are,

Other times, I just want to love you nevertheless.

Sometimes I tend to forget the world I am living in,

Other times I just want to close my eyes and drift away.

You know what I won’t forget?

The sound of your inattentive hmmm, the fragrance of your after shower, the curl of your eyebrows when you learn something new,

And yes, YOU.









Give me space enough to live a little more,
Away from the bustle of your routine life.

Give me space enough to grow and evolve,
Away from the tall buildings that tend to touch the sky.

Give me space enough to feel,
The soft sand beneath my feet,
Away from the tiled and marble floor of your house.

Give me space enough to get lost,
Just to find my own self,
Away from the crammed thoughts of you.

Give me space enough to wander,
Into the nebula and the deep dark void,
Away for the lines of cars and buses, away from you.

And when there is space enough to breathe, 
You’d find me, somewhere in the woods, lost  between the lines of poetry.


What if Musical Instruments were People?

What if all musical instruments were people, well clad and groomed?
I’d like to imagine how a guitar would look.
It’d be a ‘he’ for sure, a hopeless romantic perhaps,
Or the guy who falls in love with any lovely lady under the skies. But truly, there’s just one that he loves, one with whom his heart truly lies.

I ‘d imagine the piano to be
A lady in a silky- white dress,
With pretty black embroidered edges,
A beautiful black ribbon around her waist,
And cascade of flowing hair, laced with perfume and love.
She’s the one who smile and waves at everyone she meets,
She’s the one who everyone likes, but none could ever truly love.

I’d like to imagine the flute to be
A handsome, young man, with soft brown eyes,
He wears a loosely hung shirt and a hat burnt yellow.
He’s the one that sings in in the sunday-church choir,
And his voice is soft and mellow.
He loves his life and ponders on how he lost his one true love.

I’d like to imagine the violin to be
An aristrocract, medium, dark, dewey-eyes and calm;
People don’t usually like to be with him,
He has a certain arrogance only which his closests mates can handle.
He’s the one that sits on the isle and closes his eyes and breathes
In reminiscence of his long dead love.

If all instruments could be people, and people could be music,
I could sit and watch music dance and and flute sing and never grow tired of it.

~With heart-felt imagination, Apocalypse.


Monachopsis- the subtle and persistent feeling of being out of place.

It was a perfect Friday night,

The incandescent lights gleamed in the streets

People walking, talking, laughing, smoking, drinking,

Glittering jewels, high heels, ironed shirt, formal shoes.

Racing bikes, sleek cars, creaking bicycles.

It was a perfect Friday night,

A half-lit bulb illuminated the entire room

A broken chair, silent music on earphones, half-eaten bread,

Spectacles, dangling T-shirt and creased shorts.

Soft dancing feet on the floor, walking through open doors.

It was a perfect Paris view,

Eiffel tower in all its glory

 Phones out, click-click, selfies and photographs,

Having fun savoring ice-creams and corn-dogs,

As night falls, the lights gleam, the ladies walk and talk,

And men embrace them in their arms.

Fancy dinner below the Eiffel tower.

It was a perfect Paris view,

Eiffel tower in all its glory

I marvel at the rivets beautifully lining the bare rods,

Holding them up like people hold each other.

As night falls, the lights gleam, I walk and talk,

Talk to the breeze and my hands in the pockets of my warm soul.

Starry view above the Eiffel Tower.






We walked along the beach,
Touched the skies as far as we reach,
Walked in charred sandals,
With night's flickering candles. 

Falling where hopes falter
Hanging sideways on the sidewalks
Dizzy and half asleep
Till a point where I hit the end
I did fall for you,
You know it was all true.
Through lanes of dust and trust,
You've kept me alive.
And now that you're gone,
It's still not you that I miss,
I just lost myself into the dark abyss. 

What Depression feels like.

7:00 AM– I wake up one morning unable to move, unable to think, in a pool that reeked of rancid blood. But I had to face the world, meet new people, attend meetings and work, with a face like that? No, I can’t.

9:00 AM– Time to get dressed and step into the conundrum of people, the chaos of the world and SMILE. I did. Put on the mask, the mask that had a stench of tears creeping and knew how it felt being there. The mask, however, was my shield, a protection from all people and an ounce of belief that I wouldn’t have to wear it someday. There I was on the road, walking with benumbed legs, hands as cold as ice and a dead, heavy soul.

11:00 AM–  Inside that huge room full of people. Speakers blaring with the professor’s voice trying to get inside students’ heads. Nothing goes into mine. All I can hear is, ” you’re a loser, you can’t get past this subject ever, you know you stink of rotting meat, yes, you’re just a lump of meat!”. I break into thousand more pieces but on the outside, I am happy, trying to understand and writing each thing the professor wants us to. Continue reading What Depression feels like.