Resting Place [poem]

The thought of someone new, sure is exciting
But lately, I’ve been picking
Sunday dawns over Friday nights
Moonlit wet sand over roller-coaster rides

And I could make small talk
Learn a stranger’s hobbies
But I think I’d rather watch you show me
Your cricket helmet and brand new skinners

“Adrenaline rush is over rated” — take it from a sinner

My bruised knees, my swollen calves
My droopy eyes and my tired face
Need me to sit right next to
You, my resting place.

The Road Taken [poem]

Stuck, I was, in a conflict
Whether to or not to
To fall, I chose, and so I did
Off a high, isolated cliff

The cold hard ground 
I was scared to hit
But a glimpse of river
Made me do it

Now as I drown
With no breaths out
And no breaths in
I wonder how I forgot

I cannot swim.

Silent Loud Cries [Poetry]

I enter my room
I close the door, I fall to the floor
And as I fall
I shrink into myself
Like an empty tote bag

I rest my back
Against the foot of my bed
The need – it persists
The need for something to lean on
Or someone

I sit with my knees wide apart
Kindly excuse me, I’m too upset
To have the courtesy to close my legs

My room is hot, uncomfortably hot
But the marble floor feels cold
Maybe that’s why I’m shivering
And not because of their cold reception

I feel it running up my chest
– A muffled cry – trying to surface
I cover my mouth with both of my hands
My throat, my jaws, they ache
My body spasms as I hold it down

I fail.
Of what use is a closed door
And a noisy air conditioner
If it can’t cover the sound of my wail?

I cry.
I cry because I have reasons to cry
Then, I cry because I cry alone
Then, I cry because I want to remain alone
You see,
My tears never had the luxury
to soak up an offered tissue paper
Or another man’s T shirt
They’ve always originated in my eyes
And died by the edge of my face

So this poem suffers a similar fate
It ends right here
Abrupt, unpleasant.

Insecurities [Poem]

I sit across the mirror
My blemishes are blurred, 
with the rest of my face
My tan lines look smuged, 
not harsh
My receding hairline is just a hairline

The black dots on my nose — gone.
Scars from a childhood injury — gone.
A scraped off cheap nailpaint — gone. 
I look like a retouched photograph

Then I put my specs on
and all of a sudden
I’m aware of every single crease
on my winter-struck skin

So, it’s funny you mention
that you don’t like me with my glasses on
I, also, don’t like me with my glasses on.


When did you know you found closure?
Was it when the need for an apology went away?
Does the need for an apology ever go away?
Did you forgive or did you forget?
Did you do both or did you do neither?
What did you do to the infinite grief?
Was it like a candle flame — growing smaller
And smaller, until it was no longer there?
Or was it like a crack on a marble floor 
In a newly bought house — You made peace with the fact
That you’re going to have to live with it?

I walked past my old hostel gates today
They’re painting an advertisement over the seats you sat on on
Could this be the beginning of your end?

Doc Pomus [poem]

I remember the first time I had seen him dance
He was alone on that dais but he wasn’t dancing alone
With him, danced all 176 pairs of eyes present in that room
God, he looked gorgeous

-20th January, 2019-
God, he looks gorgeous
And the music is so loud, I feel it in my chest

Should I try and maybe dance?
I’ll start by standing up
Oh, wait, he’s dancing with her
I hate dancing anyway

The noise is so loud, I feel it in my throat
He looks happy
Woah, am I.. am I cheering them on?
Of course I am
I’m the chill girlfriend who cheers like a chihuahua
She, however, is clumsy
And her moves are so repetitive

At least she’s doing something
All I’m doing is pretending I’ve got a phone call
And thinking about Doc Pomus’ wedding

-3rd October, 2020-
I am talking to her over a phone call
I don’t want to be nice to her
I’m overcompensating by being unnaturally nice to her

I hate dancing.


She rests over polished wood, matte black and inanimate. I drag my pen across one side of her pages and when I do so, no word or letter escapes to the other side. Helped by the weight of the front cover and a band fastening the pages together, my notebook stays shut, sabotaging the wind’s attempt to read my secrets.

This notebook is conscious and integrous
More than the people I know.