Darkest Hour

have you ever been scared

not the fear that keeps you awake in midnight essays
not the fear that wraps in stranger nightmares
not the fear that knocks you awake with a stutter to stale breakfasts
not the fear that blankets itself in acquainted ethics and etiquettes

it's the fear that lumps your throat and no matter how much you've had yourself drunk in water, it stays
it's the fear that numbs your mirth and no matter how much you've had yourself betrayed in a plastic smile, it doesn't leave
it's the fear that nulls your existence and no matter how much you've had yourself convinced in the need for survival, it just stays
it's the fear that pulls your pride apart and no matter how much you've had yourself proved in the rat-race of blinded sheep, it just doesn't leave

have you ever felt insane; helplessly trapped because you know you've been losing sanity
have you ever been scared that the fear that's kept you alive will eventually turn the fear that ends it all

I'd Rather Die

tomorrow when they burn me to ashes
don't cry a river; for ashes are blind
don't write obituaries; for pyres can't hear
don't wish for the deed to be undone; for afterlives are beyond desires

tomorrow when they burn me to ashes
don't...

just let it be
for none of it would matter

i'd take a bullet, alive
than poetry, dead

Fire and Ice

i dream of unspeakable things
the ones that inscribe fresh goosebumps on faint wrinkles

- smite

The Blackhole Theory

In life, there's one truth, in love there's none
You ask why?
Because, death is real, but ghosts are fiction
And yet, skeletons in the closet of your skin
Do they ever stop haunting?

In life, there's one truth, in love there's none
You ask why?
Beacuse, birth is real, but beginnings are fables
And yet, stories in the novel of your skin
Do they ever find closures?

In life, there's one truth, in love there's none
You ask why?
Because, existences are real, but happily ever afters are make-beliefs
And yet, the goosebumps in the imagined spaces of your skin
Do you ever stop chasing?

In a life of beings, we've been drowning to the love of stories
And stories are not about truths; stories are about climaxes
And you are the climax of your own story and the anticlimax elsewhere; for the rest you are but a mere chapter or a stanza maybe

And what do you get when you weigh truths, life against love?
And what do you get when you divide one by none?

Frankenstein Fear

What is more dangerous?

The demons that they say lurk inside you
The monster you make of you knowing their perceptions of you
Or
The idea that it's all odds and evens; that it's all black or white

Could you ever tell?

Your Beard Smells of Old Smoke

"Your beard smells of old smoke", you'd once said.


I wish I could have told you of all the times, every time I rewound the poetry in the skin of a singular sentence
I wish I could have told you, how your hair smells of night jasmine; how a man of orchids had given in to the essence of a night jasmine's flourish
I wish I could have told you of the monochrome desires bleeding in the heart of the neon citylights and pastel lives; pastels have always been exaggerated, monochromes misunderstood


Beyond glass existences and pretended conversations, lies an entirety of restless unsettling essays; unpenned scribbles that made nightmares look lullabies
Beyond plastic flesh and ceramic bones, lies the whole of faceless demons and nameless fears; skeletons lurk in dark, blank spaces


In a war of similars and congruents, differences drew first blood
Between candids and corpses, second chances hung from semicolons


I could have resurrected and called it Renaissance
I could have scripted good mornings in goodnight kisses



But, this time, I'll let it all out, at a full stop

I am tired of beginnings that end

What's In a Name

Where had she come from
Where was she leaving to

What did she call herself in the silences

Who was she beyond and beneath her


I knew nothing; none of it at all



And yet, the eyes met
No comets fell
No meteors rose
And yet, the rains lashed the feeble city lives
And yet, the silences thundered the voices in the head
Not a moment stood still
Not a word was spilled

And yet, there was poetry in the blood and in the bones
And yet, there was life and there was death, wrapped in the skin