21 Grams

They say —

you lose 21 grams

of your body weight

the moment you die.

Twenty-one grams.

That’s all it was.

The entirety of your existence,

reduced to less than a handful of bone dust.

Decades, centuries, and ages 

of deluded self-importance —

as individuals,

as a species,

as self-proclaimed gods in flesh.

And for what?

Twenty-one fucking grams.

It’s ironic —

how humans keep believing

they’re too big to fall,

too important to erase.

That the universe must pause

when they speak.

And yet,

all it boils down to

is 21 grams.

Centuries of killing each other

to scream superiority,

millions of lives sacrificed

to feed the bloodlust of genocidal men

playing God

with borders, bombs, and birthrights.

We divide lands and seas

in the name of geography,

then invade them

in the name of history.

We build bridges to fix

the cracks we created,

call it technology,

and pat our own backs, while at it,

for our imagined greatness.

We invent make-believe currencies,

measure meaning in validation begged for like alms,

benchmark worth in slavery roleplaying as ambition —

for 21 grams of gravity

when we’re gone;

the same weight as that of a paper clip.

Do you know what else weighs 21 grams?

A pen cap.

A quarter teaspoon of table salt. 

And

A fist,

half-full of dust.

That —

that is the weight of your legacy.

Of your breath,

your bruises,

your belief

that you ever mattered more

than a fleeting speck

on a dying planet

spinning silently through indifference.

The next time

you consider priding in your greatness,

the next time you tickle your narcissism

with fictional tales of an imagined greatness —

remember:

you matter

exactly as much

as 21 grams would.

Architecture Of Ruin

They say I’m not romantic —

like it’s a crime, a flaw,

like I’m missing the manual,

like I skipped the part where love’s supposed to be pretty

and easy

and blind.

So I dove headfirst into the textbooks —

hundred thousand love-sick plays,

lovelorn poems spilled like blood on pages,

the masters of love and words

telling me how it’s done.

But here’s the thing —

textbook love is a lot like blinding light,

like staring at the sun till your eyes bleed,

and no one calls that love.

Love isn’t the glossy lies

slapped on magazine pages,

not rehearsed pretences

served with make-belief smiles —

no unicorns or rainbows,

just blood, dirt, sweat, and rot.

My idea of romance —

is the architecture of ruin beneath fragile skin,

the invisible bruises carved by silence,

the bitter coffee mornings,

the apologies swallowed whole,

the regrets folded like secret maps

to nowhere.

It’s a war zone stitched in shadows —

where ghosts trade fire with memories,

victories drowned in the smoke of regrets,

a discordant symphony,

played on strings stretched thin by time and truth.

It’s not perfect.

Hell, it’s as far from perfect as an atheist from faith.

It’s flawed, fractured, bruised by time and truth,

but it’s real —

the kind that doesn’t close its eyes

to the cracks,

but leans in,

holds on tight,

and loves anyway.

In a world drowning in fairy tales —

where love’s a product to sell,

a story polished till it gleams,

so glossy even fools flinch before believing —

I choose the battered,

the bruised,

the love that stumbles through hellfires

and still wants to stay.

Because real love —

it’s the late-night fights that bleed into dawn,

the silence that screams louder than words,

the knowing glance that says,

“I’m still here.

I’m still angry.

I’m still yours.”

It’s the taste of tears on your skin,

the weight of history on your heart,

the promise made not in grand gestures,

but in staying —

when leaving is easier,

when the world outside is a thousand reasons to go.

Does that make me not romantic?

Or does it make every textbook

nothing but a virgin’s thesis on intercourse —

all theory, no grit,

no blood, no sweat, no goddamn reality?

Echoes Of A Broken Covenant

Morality isn't a realised actuality —

it’s a fictional agreement signed in spit and fear,

etched into wet clay heads of children,

molded by hands too rough to know better.

It hardens with time —

like skin cracked by drought,

becoming bone —

rigid, unyielding, unquestionable.

Faith, an unscrupulous stepmother,

breathes fire into those brittle rules,

turns maybes into bloody rights and wrongs,

etched on stone tablets no one dares touch

without burning their own fingers.

But once your tear down that altar —

rip faith away —

what’s left?

Chaos? Freedom?

Or just another set of lies

whispered softly to drown the noise?

Because ethic —

ethic is faith’s bastard cousin,

no prayer pronounces it,

no stained glass window holds its light.

It’s a house of cards built on shaky assumptions —

goodwill, empathy, and a deluded sense of human greatness —

fragile scaffolding in a storm of doubt.

We place our bets on reason —

our secular god with no temples —

but it’s a flickering candle in a hurricane,

a prayer whispered in the dark,

hoping the flame survives till dawn.

No gods? No commandments?

Just millions of messy humans

stitching meaning from dust and desperation.

Faith is the glue holding the cracks,

the bitter pill swallowed daily,

to keep the mirror whole —

knowing fully well, it’s shattered beyond repair.

Morality without faith?

A map drawn on shifting sands,

a dance without rhythm,

a silence waiting for sound.

Yet in that silence,

we reach.

We fight.

We try to be good —

not because some god demands it —

but because a fragile spark inside us

refuses the void.

We learn the rules not as chains,

but as compass through the chaos —

a language made of scars,

a promise we make to ourselves

to stand when the world folds.

Morality is survival.

Morality is rebellion.

Morality is the only faith we can afford

when gods fall silent.

So maybe faith and ethic —

they’re two sides of the same coin,

flipped in the air,

landing on different truths for every believer.

But here’s the ugly truth:

faith, morality, ethics —

they’re all human-made —

fractured, fragile, flawed.

And no, that’s not enough.

But, it’s all we have.

In this godless, cracked world,

there is no quiet promise,

no soft hands, no lasting voices.

Only the cracks beneath us,

splitting open, swallowing whole.

So tell me —

if faith is just a story we tell ourselves to survive,

when the gods are gone

and the silence devours everything

what story will you leave behind?

Inheritance: Blood, Bones & Blame

I have often wished to be reptile —

to shed skin from time to time.

No scars.

No scabs.

No nightmares dragging me awake at 3 AM.

No shadows of bygone pasts

crawling up my spine like a lust-sick leech.

Being human has never been convenient —

we grow skin back,

but never heal.

I’ve bled more in my head than I ever have through skin.

My scar tissues have bled into pages

of pungent, desperate poetry.

But they haven’t healed.

How do you heal

what has no skin?

How do you nurse

what’s bare and exposed,

with no sheath,

no shell,

no place to hide behind?

How much poetry must one bleed

before bleeding out completely —

leaving behind

nothing

but the skin?

They tell me letting go is important.

You can let go of things you own.

But how do you let go

of what owns you?

How do you unlive

what’s already interred

in your blood and bones?

How do you let go of twenty years

without losing a lifetime?

How do you hold fort against abuse

more permanent than your teeth?

They tell me I should learn to forgive.

You can forgive people.

Not breathing demi-gods

wearing the flesh of humans.

How do you forgive

when there is no one asking?

When their egos are thicker

than the blood you both share?

They say I shouldn’t be so hard on myself.

That I shouldn’t keep doing this to myself.

As if all this

were a choice.

Do you think I unwrapped

this trauma like a birthday gift?

Do you think I invited abuse,

abandonment,

and an ever-thickening worthlessness

into my life

for the poetry?

Do you think I bleed

day after day

night after night

because I’m allergic to band-aids?

I’ve grown up

to a religious woman’s prayers —

not for my health and prosperity,

but for my death.

To a man of science

who cut me open

with scalpels carved of legacies,

bruising me

like I was his latest

failed experiment.

I’ve grown up

to a mother’s regret

for birthing me.

To a father’s contempt

because I failed to be the life

he pre-conceived.

I’ve grown up

being told

I’d never measure up

to the family name.

That I’d only ever be

a filthy aftertaste, at best.

An existential glitch.

A psychological aberration.

An utter waste

of privileged parenting.

And yet —

I could never do it.

I could never fully shed skin.

But I shed

the family name.

And some nights 

I still wonder 

if skin ever belonged to me

or if it was just another name 

they had etched on my bones. 

Life, The Longest Death

Have you ever stared endlessly at the seas,

wondering where the beauty is —

the beauty poets wrote odes to?

Any of it?

All of it,

blurred into a lump of cosmic void —

pale skies and paler seas

fornicating into an ugly, hopeless, unalive blue.

So excruciatingly anaemic,

you start wondering

if you're losing sight —

or worse, losing it all.

And with the last remaining shallow breaths,

and quickly numbing limbs,

you decide to make a final run.

A decadent glimmer of hope

trying to outrun

the morbid skin of time —

a bleeding existential crisis' last cry for help,

possibly shipwrecked,

where the seas and skies

don’t seem eternal anymore,

just bone-deep.

You run,

like a helpless mother runs

with her dying child

clutched between bloodied arms

and hollow breasts.

But the sands —

they drift apart,

disintegrate grain by grain,

your feet sinking further

with every step planted

into the flesh of it.

You realise it’s quicksand —

an elaborate death trap

set up intricately

by your own reluctant existence,

designed not to kill you,

but to keep you failing at escape.

You'd hoped the end

would be quick and easy.

But life doesn’t believe in easy.

Easy

is mercy.

And mercy isn't a good enough cocktease for life.

Life doesn't do mercy.

What does life do instead?

A slow, loathing surrender

drawn out to the edge

of an atheist’s final prayer.

You bend your knees,

hands folded in submission,

waiting for life

to be sucked out

like air in a vacuum.

But just when you’re ready —

eyes clenched hard,

eyeballs drowning

into a peach-black oblivion —

Life throws you back

into your bed.

Eyes wide open.

Closure denied.

Heart ticking.

Existence waking

to the horror

of having to live

all of it

all over again.

Scapegoat Symphony

You think —

You think I’m broken?

Broken?

I swallowed silence whole,

choked on invisible chains

you never had the guts to see.

Mother—voice sharp, venom dripping:

You’re the black sheep!

Always were.

Always will be.

Blaming me?

Don’t make me fucking laugh!

I bled for you —

every damn sacrifice,

and you spit it back as hate,

twisting truth to suit your bitterness.

Son—voice cutting like shattered glass:

Hate?

I don’t hate — I see.

You sewed my wounds shut with lies,

painted me villain

in your scripted tragedy of “perfect” pain.

Father—slurring, torn:

I’m caught in the fucking crossfire —

torn between your screams

and their deafening silence —

it breaks me every goddamn day.

Mother—snapping, venomous:

Breaks you?

You’re weak!

Couldn’t hold us together,

so you ran to the bottle,

hid behind your fucking cowardice —

not a man, not a father,

just a shadow with excuses.

Son—spitting fire:

Excuses?

I starved for truth,

while you fed me half-truths,

broken promises wrapped

in your guilt like cheap wrapping paper.

Mother—shrill, gaslighting:

Promises?

I gave you everything —

love you didn’t deserve!

You chose to be lost,

not me!

You’re the failure,

the stain on our name.

Son—voice screaming through the cracks:

Stain?

I’m the scar your silence etched deep,

the black sheep you birthed

then wished would vanish.

Father—muttering, fractured:

I wanted peace...

but peace is a goddamn lie here.

Mother—snarling, merciless:

Peace?

You’re the weakest link,

the man who folds,

not me.

Son—steel in his spine:

I’m done being scapegoat,

done carrying your shame.

Your black sheep

has clawed free from the slaughterhouse.

Mother—cold, cruel:

Then get lost.

We don’t fucking need you—

not now, not ever.

Father—whisper, ghost of a man:

We’re all drowning...

and no one saves the other.

Son—steady, final:

I’m walking away,

burning this house down

to build something real —

from ashes you refused to see.

I'd Burn My Art To Feel Nothing

For years and years, through centuries and ages,

the ones who made the most unforgettable art

had the most forgettable lives.

Because trauma and abuse,

sadomasochism and self-sabotage

aren’t exactly on the grocery list

of a life worth remembering.

That’s how the tremors,

the ghosts of my ghastly past

and grim present,

have been justified —

by self-proclaimed intellectuals

with bone-dry empathy

and second-hand philosophies.

That’s an insanely poisonous species, you see —

they think they know all they need to

while their hollow bones clap

to the dance recital

of their singular brain cell,

as they wrap their crooked teeth

around borrowed perspectives

and stolen importances —

an elaborate fellatio

to their obese egos,

leaving cum stains on art

they didn’t even suffer for.

You think I’m happy to be creating art?

You think anyone birthing real art

is happy to be creating it?

Art, for most of us,

is the therapy we couldn’t afford,

in a world obsessed with outlines,

box-ticking,

diagnoses dressed in denial.

You get a boner in the name of art —

because it looks good,

because it sells well,

because it tastes like sophistication

on your curated palate of aesthetic consumption.

But you won’t care

for the bleeding fingers,

for the broken ribs it was born out of.

You never do.

Because you think art is what matters —

who cares what it cost?

That’s the shallow pond you want me to swim in.

But I’m drowning in it.

And I swear to god,

I would trade every syllable,

every stanza,

every standing ovation,

to have a mediocre, meandering, meaningless existence

if that meant

I could undo all that defiles me,

and be happy.

But here I am —

still bleeding for strangers

who’ll hang my pain on their gallery walls,

frame my trauma in gold,

and forget to ask

if I’m still alive.