I’m a blind sheep. 

And he’s the expert shepherd. 

He orders, I follow. 

No questions asked. 

I’m not allowed to think.

I’m just an eating machine- A liability. 

No scope for emotions, opinions or dreams. 

He decides everything for me… 

He’s a sloppy pacifier. 

I’m the curious rebel- Always trying to slip through the gaps. 

No more soured, burdened treats. 

I’m intrigued by the raw, freedom leaves. 

But like all the things that bring joy, soon the golden age ends. 

For he’s the master trapper and I’m just a naive prey- 

Drawing too much attention. 

Ecstatic with the triumph of my escape. 

Sometimes I think, he purposefully lets me loose, 

Just to crush my newborn hopes- in time- once again. 

Just to highlight the futility of my struggles. 

Now, I’m back in his cage… 

I’m a criminal to be tried for the crime. 

There are no rules or rights. 

Hesitant- I raise my hand. 

But, how dare I speak my mind? 

He’s the true victim, not me. 

I’m just an unreasonable, ungrateful brat- a stranger to the ways of the world. 

An entitled tantrum ensues. 

The jury applauds his touching performance. 

He’s good with his words and he’s good with his whip. 

And he establishes my life as his right! 

Reasons how it always has been that way. 

Follows a tale of sacrifices & debts. 

And now the other prisoners agree, too. 

Afraid of his ferocious strike. 

And the drama is ceremoniously dismissed. 

I’m the declared culprit!

‘Hey, but I never got a chance to defend myself!’ I scream. 

It echoes through the reinforced walls of maximum security. 

The inmates crack up with laughter. 

The society clowns are my frequent visitors. 

They bring the prescribed doses of smirking, ancient wisdom. 

Gauging my subdued stubbornness. 

Congratulating the shepherd for his work. 

‘Soon he’ll be one of us!’ 

He assures the inspector as he sees him out. 

Another rebellion is crushed. 

Another example is set. 

The despot smiles to himself; content. 

He collects his hunting gear, 

And heads out the door. 

Looking for another sheep- 

Whistling along his innocent tune. 


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Sweet Migraine

I taste the world through my words. 

I paint my pain through a verse. 

The secret pieces suffer. 

Never graced with a day’s light. 

Stashed away in the shadows. 

In invisible sorrows of my smiles… 

My heart yearns for her. 

The organs play their favourite bits. 

The eyes see her thousand avatars. 

The skin remembers her velvety touch. 

The ears ring full with laughter. 

Her laughter. 

The lips quiver softly. 

And the brain burns. 

And I know it isn’t real, 

But I’m happy with the torture. 

The migraine grows. 

It’s got a beat of it’s own. 

A continuous throb. 

I’m a ticking time bomb. 

Sadness drips from my sharp eyelashes. 

A gash opens with a scarlet stream. 

Pink embroidery on the white porcelain sink. 

The water creates intricate patterns. 

And then drains my traces clean. 

My skin looks pleased at it’s neat work. 

The tears stop. 

The migraine dulls to a distant thud. 

She’s a jar’ plays on the radio, as I silently empty. 

The world fades. 

I’m a singular white light. 

I float. 

I’m a balloon tied to my own feet. 

And yet somehow I’m on the floor. 

A shattered jar, few missing pieces. 

I don’t understand how this works. 

But I’m content in my crimson pool. 

The music continues to play. 

Hammering away a new migraine. 

But I don’t care. 

I’m a balloon tied to my own feet. 

I’m a singular white light. 

I float. 


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Dear stranger, I’m in love with you. No, not the love you’re thinking of. Not the selfish love I’ve always known, needed & practiced. This is a rare & beautiful breed. A kind which doesn’t expect much in return; Apart from few moments of shade in our otherwise scorching lives, A chance to lay all the burdens down and be the truth itself- without the eyes of judgement. Thanks for giving me that. I’ve never had anything quite like it… 

I’m a magician. I perform my tricks, sometimes just for you. I can’t see you or hear. But I can read. And you’re always so sure with your words. Like ice and fire they pierce. Sometimes soothing, sometimes critically hot. But always urging me on. Better is your mantra. Another example of your giving kindness… 

I’m a musician. I make my broken music and somehow it mixes with your continuing, lively rhythm. And it fits. Just like a piece that was meant to be. And we sway together to that beat for a moment. And it feels strangely intimate. A vibe that tells of all the ways we’re similar than not. If perfection does exists, it lies in those moments of alignment, I think. 

Dear stranger, you make me feel like I matter. Like I belong. No longer a weirdo or an outlaw. I’m a part of the greater whole. And I can’t thank you enough for that. Only the homeless will know how much it means… 

We live in the different corners of the world. Or maybe it isn’t really that far. I can not know. But I feel us inching closer- Though we’ve hardly moved at all. Maybe the world is- in fact- shrinking. And maybe that’s a good thing…

We’re travellers- you & I. Separate lonely journeys, true. But there’s a strange satisfaction in being lonely together. 

We’re the wandering toys & maybe we’ll meet, if our paths ever stumble across. Or maybe you’re a perfect circle and I’m just an insignificant, passing tangent- privy to a single point. 

Who knows?! 

Why ruin our purity by seeking anything more? Why bind ourselves in the restraints of time? Let’s surprise it instead! 

Let’s do just that…

So, what do you say dear stranger? What do you say? 


This one’s for you my friend


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A mother knows how to suffer for her child. But what if that suffering only continues to grow? What if the mother can’t suffer in silence anymore? 

A mother must discipline her mischievous kid. But what if the kid figures a way to beat her each punishment? What else can she do, but get more creative & harsh? 

A mother only knows how to give. But what happens when the kids don’t know how to share? How does she ensure that even the less fortunate are fed? 

A mother must never choose between her kids. But what about favouritism? What if her most favoured, prodigal son is at the fault? 

A mother must protect her children. But what if protecting one means orphaning all the others? What then? 

Think about it. 

Is your mother responsible, if it’s your very own actions, which continue to drive her to the extreme? 

P.S:- Mother = Mother Nature. 


This piece is written on a topic suggested by my friend Devz

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A prayer, A toast 

The thirsty will always scramble for an easy drink. 

Not me. 

I suffer a choosy, insatiable ardour.

Can’t be tamed with a dinky, warm shower. 

This belly needs fire. 

Something rare, precious- a lesson. 

Scathing hot, a unique lesion. 

The burns for the unburnt one. 

Give me that and I will drink. 

And if you can’t,

Then just hand me the biting cold. 

Enough of the chivalrous stillness! 

I’d rather shiver but breathe more. 

Give me the suffering at it’s best. 

This tongue isn’t meant for the average tastes. 

I’ll have the extremes, if you please. 

Can accept a queasy skin but never the spirit. 

Can swallow anything but the glare of extinguished dreams.  

Not air, this heart runs on smoke- 

The flames, they mend on their own. 

Roaring flaws of my skin. 

The cracks in the melted ceiling. 

Seeping warmth, breaching cold. 

A twinkle of star, a silver of hope. 

Rejuvenated embers blink within. 

An old fire reborn…! 

Burning to forge me down. 

I need to polish my sheen. 

No! Don’t bring the easy rain!

I don’t need a respite from pain. 

But if you must;

Then make sure I’m the naked, effervescent magma beneath.

The making of the volcanic rock! 

I sure don’t want to be the mediocre sand. 

Washed away at the ocean’s whims. 

Don’t need the promise of distant lands. 

I’d rather hold my ground. 

So, don’t give me talent God! 

It’s overrated and wasted in abundance. 

Not a lasting fuel. 

I’m looking for a different drink. 

A shot of inner fire and a pinch of wisdom, perhaps? 

A diversion from the nightmares, some courage gluing the gaps. 

No burden of the future, 

No shackles of the past. 

Make me thirst for the present instead. 

Make this moment last! 

Wash me with waves of resistance. 

Sprinkle my wounds with salt. 

Not easy; Give me a tough, engaging act. 

A little bit of discipline- that’s all I ask. 

Give me that 

And I will drink. 

Give me that 

And I will live. 

And I promise I won’t stop. 

Until I’m done or it is finished. 

Until I’m dead or it is achieved. 


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The Last Gift

“I’m not a healthy person to love. It’s not a practical way to live.” I explain. 

‘It’s going to be impossible to move on.’ I think. 

And as I lie in my bed with a stone cold heart & wide open eyes; 

The ceiling paint trickles down like the tears I can not cry. 

It breaks the invisible surface. 

And doubt ripples through my mind. 

The muse lays beside. 

Arms wrapped tight. 

Afraid to let me loose. 

Her softness dents my resolve. 

Her tears draw a picture. 

A plea for mercy… 

The words are speechless. 

She cries herself to sleep. 

Her eyes close. The tears stop. But her body continues to sob. 

And the drawing continues to evolve. 

I can not look away. 

I hardly sleep at all. 

The morning brings a whirlwind of it’s own. 

My mind’s stuck in it’s very eye. 

It’s the breakfast time. 

And I want to taste as much as I can, while I can; before my tongue gets cut off. 

Or should I say my hand? 

The pages fill quickly. 

The mind’s reservoirs empty. 

The moment of goodbye comes. 

And the passion resurges for the last time. 

The lovers embrace. They kiss. 



An attempt to overstay. 



‘I must go. We must part.’ I beg. 

And the pen stops. 

The pain doesn’t. 

It multiplies. 

The muse walks out. 


Tears blind my vision. 

I almost overlook the beauty of her piece. 

The muse’s last gift. 

A picture all too familiar. 

“Oh! See how the roles have reversed!”

But this wasn’t an unrequited affair. 

I was actually receiving back love;

and it was precious. 

I realise my mistake. 

I give up my fears. 

“Is it too late to make amends?” I ask. 

Maybe this was the love meant to last. 

I pick up the pen. 

I draw out a fresh page. 

I apologise. 



The heart stops. 

The time slows. 



I do not know… 

And the hand finally moves. 


The muse returns. 

The story resumes. 

And so does my heart. 

And I write. 

This time with gratitude for the gift. 

This time with conviction for the craft. 


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