Do we know love?

I love her and I think I know what love is.

Love is a conversation,
It is physical affection.

Love is the comfort you establish in silence,
It is the way your eyes speak to each other without stopping even once.

Love is doing too much,
It is doing too less.

Love is about finding and maintaining balance,
It is about losing it and embracing this loss.

Love is an antiseptic for age old open wounds of yours
It is the extra spoon of sugar in your tea.

Love is deep and intense
It is sweet and mushy.

Love makes you conquer – fears, demons and the bad side of you
It also makes you surrender.

Love can give you life
And it can snatch it away.

Love is a mystery
And it is an open book.

I love her and I know what love is
But you know, I was wrong all this while
It is not any of this.

It is them, the person I had in mind while writing this poem
The person you had in mind while reading it.

Love is you.
Love is you.
Just you.


*Featured Image Courtesy –


Walking through fire

This world is nothing but fire
Burning us, our desires, our loves
Setting ablaze our dreams and hope.
We are like candles, fading into oblivion because of this
Melting away, disappearing into nothingness
We think we are meant to burn,
Meant to go away someplace, somewhere, sometime and forever.

But what if we stop for a second and think, why?
Candles don’t need to be lighted just because they look pretty and have always been lit
We don’t need to kill our souls and exist like mannequins just because that’s how those before us lived and it’s what been taught to us.
Oh! Dear Lord, we need to stop, stop right now and search
Look around for some water to extinguish our burning souls
Look around for some life to stop us becoming nothing.

It won’t defy death, nothing in this world does
The fire won’t stop,
But that doesn’t make a difference, for as Bukowski said what matters most is how well we walk through it.

And I say what defines us is how long we’re able to take this walk for
One step at a time, putting out the flames and the pessimism that wears us down,
Bathing ourselves in elixir, drying ourselves with the rays of the shining morning sun
Carrying on strong and free, like we were never taught to,
Covering as much ground as we can
Making sure our souls never quit,
Ploughing through until our bodies bid us goodbye.

If we can do that,
We will be the victors
And we would have defeated, defied this world, this human misery,
We would have been ablaze, but never burnt.
We would have walked through that ring of fire Bukowski talks about with aplomb, with grace, with pride and a whole blooming lot of swagger.
We would have lived.

We should start now.
I have.
Have you?


*Featured Image Courtesy –

A life of pretence

People are ostentatious
They’re always pretending.

Feeling this need to be someone else
Fearing rejection
Riddled with self doubt
Self hate.

People are ostentatious
They’re always pretending.

Pretending to be good
And sweet

Pretending to be alive,
All the years they’re nothing but walking death.


*Featured Image Courtesy –

Finding the good life

A metal garden chair,
A man on the chair
Legs spread, hands behind head.
Birds humming, human life almost non-existent
A jazzy balcony of a jazzy house in a jazzy part of a jazzy city
A cup of tea, not hot anymore
Half eaten packet of chips
Ash in the ash tray.
I see him and I feel jealous
This man is in his own heaven, at peace when people die a thousand deaths before finding it.

As I sit on a garden chair in a lovely balcony
Of a majestic house, smoking away to glory,
Eating chips, sipping tea
Listening to birds and staring at the sun setting
Not at all lamenting the absence of human life,
With nowhere else to be in the immediate future and nothing to do.
I should be happy
I should have found the peace we spend all our lives looking for.
But I am not and I have not.

I see chaos in the calm
I hear wails in the silence
I smell horse shit, not the ambrosial fragrance of the Earth.
I feel trapped by my own freedom.
I look at my son and I envy him
No, not because he is at peace,
He is not, no one is
But because he at least hopes he would be one day
Or that someone else is and it is something achievable.

He reads Philosophy in college,
Is currently studying the concepts of liberation
Excitedly, he tells me about it
Thinking me to be a wise old man who knows life and the workings of the world,
Both on the outside and the in,
So and so achieved peace or liberation through such and such method
And I nod and pretend to marvel at these accounts
It breaks my heart to live with the reality that there is no liberation from anything in this world
I should tell him now and prepare him for the future but can’t because I am too weak
To burst his bubble, to take the meaning of hope out of his repertoire forever
And so I pretend to be content with the horrible life I am leading
Just so he doesn’t surrender to forces of nature and his own senses, his own mind.
He is not a fool to believe me though, just that I am a damn good actor,
Have been all my life.

I have seen many people with money, jobs, steady marriages and a lot else
I have seen them happy, but not content
They haven’t bowed out of the rat race that ordinary life is,
This struggle to look and sound and feel cool
And to make others realize how amazing they and their wives, husbands, kids, parents, friends, jobs, cars, houses, their whole bloody lives are.
Happiness is like sex,
Good for a while, but downright hollow as a composite entity in the long run
Peace, like love, is transient, it has mystical depths, is wholesome.
Happiness is a want
Peace, or at least a hope for it, a necessity.

I’ve seen many happy women and men and their children,
But I have only seen my father at peace.
He is not happy, but he is content, maybe because he knows he can’t ever be happy.
And through this strange life he has lead, I know I can find my own truths, I can find peace.

And when might that be, I ask myself as I write this.
I almost smile right now.
I know the answer,
The expectation of which makes me gush
But another question pops up in my mind now
Is this gush due to happiness or peace?
A lower or higher pleasure, as Mill puts it.

As I sit and ponder over this
I get another answer
Which if I think harder may lead to another question.

I laugh out loud and hard now
I am the LOL you text your bestie, the laughing-so-hard-tears-come-out emoji you’ve killed with overuse.

“What is up with me? Am I intoxicated?”
No, it’s just philosophy, poetry and insomnia being the devils they are.

Peace or no peace, who cares.
Happiness or no happiness, who cares.
Just bloody live and avoid death as long as you can
And all will be well.

Is too.


*Featured Image Courtesy –

The wild beast of life

There is a mad rage in the eyes of that wild beast in front of me
His teeth clenched with anger
A series of growls, not even barks
I can almost feel blood bursting out of his veins
I am scared now but I can’t let him know that
They sense fear, they thrive on it.
(I was attacked like that once too, but wasn’t half as afraid then as I am now.)

In my head, a tornado of defence mechanisms are doing the rounds.

Weird ideas of masculinity and the like I diss.
I’m running out of breath, and time.
So I do something impulsive.
I charge at it, matching his every growl with mine.
Outdoing his rage.
He doesn’t like it, it damages his fragile ego
He scrapes me, blood gushes out by the gallons from every inch of me.
I am scared and now in deep pain too.
Lying on the ground, him all over me, completely helpless and hapless.

Just when I thought I would be done completely,

I muster the strength to make one last-ditch attempt.
I open my arms, trying to fake some affection towards him.
And dayum! I strike gold,
That monster is not prepared for this embrace,
I hug him and he relents, shocked out of all his senses.
He has been defeated.
I have found a way to win the battle.
Bruised, bloodied, hanging by a thread, but still hanging. Victorious.

Handshakes over punches.

Kisses over guns.
Hugs over bombs.
Peace over anger.
Love over hate.

What a beast life is.


*Featured Image Courtesy –


I am that weird stage in life
When it all begins to make sense one moment
And then not the very next.

I feel brave enough to confront my feelings right now
But then see others, or even my own reflection and am riddled with doubt and self-hate
I don’t belong here and then suddenly I do
Who am I, except a regular bloke slowly vanishing without leaving an imprint on this world?
What am I, except a study in contradiction?

I think I’m good and likeable but I am not
I am an insecure, petite human with fears and jealousies and hatred and anger that remains buried deep within the smile and laughter
I hate it when I am alone and when I am reminded by the voice inside of who I am
I am everyone who I hate, everything I find hate worthy in them.

I have tried to hide these dark truths
People have been fooled,
But how would my conscience?
I have tried to accept these dark truths too
And I have failed because I want to be a lovely person
Not this sad little nobody.

I haven’t reached even the first stage of self acceptance
I hate how I look, walk, talk, write, bathe and brush and live.
I hate myself and I am forever angry that I do
I am forever angry and I hate myself that I am.

I want to be happy for people I care about but I can’t.
My insides burn with jealousy when I see them smile and make friends and girlfriends and boyfriends and see them have fun and be unburdened kids like they are meant to be
Like I was meant to be but am not
I look at them and I tell myself that life is nothing but pain and misery and despair and these morons don’t realise that they are being taken for a ride by cruel Ms. Destiny and Mr. Fate.

I laugh at my evilness and I cry too
Because I don’t want to be who I am
I want to be pure and love people and take pleasure in their happiness
Not feel like death when I see them happy
And not write poems at midnight in a bid to find some peace, some solace and answers to questions that haunt me at night and in the day.
I hate who I am and how I view life and how I live
I want to change directions, take the right path.

I am at a junction, I have options in front of me.
This is one chance I have of taking the right route
But it’s not easy, my mind is so full of crap and confusion.
In this labyrinth, where it all makes sense one moment and not at all the very next one, my future depends.
I need to make the correct choice, the only correct choice.
Which way is that?
Can anyone help?
I have failed so often I doubt I’ll succeed ever.
The cries for help remain ignored, much like my existence.

What do I do and where do I go?
Rather what do I need and where will I get it?
I need peace, a search for my own truths and I won’t get them anywhere else except by conquering the horrible, ugly, disgust worthy things about me.

The war is on.
One part of me will win and one won’t.
One will live and the other will die.

But will I have the strength to walk in knowing all of this?
For everyone who walks in does so despite the fears
And that is why these people are the most courageous lot, these beautiful fighters of invisible, intangible enemies.
And my insignificant little self is so envious of them,
Bloody heroes, confronters of their own gargantuan demons.

These people are models of bravery.
I am not, but now I do need to be.
The clock is ticking,
I need to make a choice.

I have.
I am jumping into the deep end
And I will swim my way back.

I am my own demon
And I need to defeat myself to win at life.

I will.


*Featured Image Courtesy –

Lust for happiness

I want to fly far and high
But I don’t want to be the bird you see when you gaze aimlessly at the sky
I want to be a bird that flies without wings.

I want to speed away far and long
But I don’t want to be the racing car you see on the tracks
I want to be a racing car that speeds without tyres.

I want to be free and I want to be me
But I don’t want to free and thus me, or me and thus free
I want to have not found peace or acceptance and still be me and free.

That is not possible, is it?
Tonight, I’d have one answer.
Tomorrow, and the day after as well.

And I will carry on struggling until I can answer that in the positive.
And you will too.
Because, deep down, we are all a bunch of stupid idealists who believe in absurd concepts of hope and goodness and God and supernatural forces.

Because we all are weak and we need support.
Some excuse to march on and satisfy our lust for happiness.
One day, some day.


*Featured Image Courtesy –

Disguised courage

You who kill are not strong.
You who bully are not strong.
You who don’t fear death are not strong.
You who lift weights are not strong.
You who hold positions of political or social power are not strong.
You who claim to fight for others are not strong.
You who think this poem is absolute rubbish are not strong.

You who live alone
You who have nothing to look forward to any moment and still go on
You who fight your own self each second you breathe
You who face death every day and every night
And cry and sob
And self harm knowing you’ll not be able to go through with it.

You, my friend, are who is strong
Don’t let the world fool you.


*Featured Image Courtesy –

I will win for me and you

A strong wind blows against my face
My eyes shut due to it’s force
Hair doing a jig of it’s own
Each passing moment, the intensity increases.

I’m running like lightning
Screaming, roaring
In pain, anger and also relief
My legs hurt but it doesn’t matter
My breathing is heavy and that too doesn’t matter.

This is my space
No one and nothing from outside exists right now.
I’m trying to break free from the invisible monster
Not yet succeeding, but trying at least.

Why did I allow myself to be caged for so long?
Why did I surrender before the fight even began?
Why did I do all the things I did?

Tears trickle down my cheeks
As these questions form in my head.
The screaming and roaring intensifies further.

I won’t ever have answers to those questions.
I will, after a while, stop thinking about them.
But if I fail now,
In trying to flee this mental death
If I do fail now,
I’ll be gone, poof
Quicker than water puts out fire.

My arms stretched out wide.
I feel I’m flying.
Wings, not my arms, stretched out.

It is just me.
No one and nothing from outside.
And there are innumerable doubts within,
Will I win or not?
Conquer or be conquered?
Plagued by the powers of pessimism
I fear the worst.

But a voice,
Not my own, someone else’s
The only outside force that’s made it’s way through,
Seems to say something.
It tells me I will win.
That I will live.
The pessimism vanishes as soon as those words are uttered.
I’m not alone in this battle,
Something, someone is there.

I am not alone.
And that means the world.
I know someone is there, egging me on.
I know who that someone is.
And I will win.

For myself,
And for that someone who so desperately wants me to win.


*Featured Image Courtesy –