You’ve planted your roots under the humid sun,

pushing the earthen ground of filial obedience,

to find the water of appreciation and peace,

seeking the nutrients of innate contentment.


But you have been uprooted too often,

that your body is torn and bloodied, 

with the sins of your past,

with the karmas of your future.


You realise you only have the strength,

to gain stability in the concrete homes,

of those that never had the heart,

to give you loyalty in the first place.


Shiver at the ironic natures of this world!


The roots that you buried,

have been left to wither and die,

under the humid sun and the breezy winds,

the memories; the laugher.


Your living soul Is nothing but a distant past of a life once lived and mourned.





Like withered leaves,
frolicking to autumn’s eddying air,
I’ll never know,
when will I settle,
satisfy the needs of innate contentment,
accept that the established sentiment,
of yesteryear’s regrets and dispositions,
were brewed; resonance of seasons,
of torment and wholesome blues,
the despair of crouching in broken homes,
lined with vines of toughened roots,
of darkened esteems and confidence,
to approach life.

When will I settle,
heal the chasms of neurotic inanities,
reject the weakened foundations of these paper towns,
glorified by the insatiable greed of paper people,
making cutout love in flimsy suburbia,
that failed to quench the pleas of adam-kind,
to erase the mistake,
of star-crossed sins and entwined hues;
the longing for better times,
to approach life.


“An angel born but not a grudge she bears;

As her ashes are scattered in the living air,

Of a world segregated in races and gender,

Blood stained hands destroying love so tender,

What a world we live in!

Blind to accept that killing foetuses is a sin;

To pluck the emerging blossom from within,

Their wage of life weighed in misery and pain,

The cycle of toxicity that begins again.

What a world we live in!”

The Birth of Death


The warble of the beloved nightingale,

Sings praises of the pregnant moon,

Who cowers behind the wisps of the sycamore,

And heralds the nativity of eternal darkness.


The silence of the broken heart,

Dances sheepishly to the silent night,

The cursed rhapsody of a heartbreak croaks,

And heralds the nativity of eternal loneliness.


The tranquility of an ethereal soul,

Stillborn spirit of the earthly soil,

Preordained curse of the millennial age,

And heralds the nativity of eternal death.







I’m fine, I’m fine,

As I struggle between the lines.

I lay each night with my fears,

And the blanket holds my tears.

My body is the shell of someone I knew,

They pity on me like a Holocaust Hebrew.

They say it will heal with time,

But I’m dancing to Death’s chime.

My mother says I’m getting thinner,

As I took pills and prayed like a sinner.

Darkness bloomed deeper and deeper,

My soul  reserved for the merciless reaper.

Lying in the abyss of doubt so alone,

We suffer in a world of our own.

The brain shivers from the cold,

Of seeing saints made of gold.

We were meant to say goodbye,

Throwing my soul to the sky.

Killed my demons who used to aspire,

Playing with fire to burn my pyre.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t strong enough.

The Earth blew winds that were too rough

God wasn’t there for my salvation

The nativity of Death lieth my redemption

They told me I will conquer the world

I told them it won’t be this world.

They said I couldn’t leave those I loved

To dust I’ll return, fallen or shoved.

They said I was soft-spoken,

But mentally I was just broken

They tell me that this is acrid mirth,

If only my mother had buried me in millenial Earth.

From ashes to ashes,

From failure to failure,

I will return,

A victim of my behaviour.



Murrain tears, bathed in Dawn’s pallor.

Skulls and bones, Hued of Nature’s color.

The sickened mind will cease in the midnight air

Despair will crumble, lieth silent-bare.

Far and wide they’ll tread to see

A cursed paradise, of forgotten thee

They saw and shunned the mental lyre

Ashes and broken dreams, product of the earthen pyre.



“My life is the ink to my poetic lines

Every one of them a paradoxical surmise

And I’m made to scatter my soul

Into stanzas that teachers feel need control


The cascading spiral of heartbreak unfolds

And the reader bears witness, through stories untold

A hapless crusade through chalices of cyanide

Pandemonium churning through my insides


A voracious media of jumbled words

That drowns me in oceans of hurt

I try to escape, through determination I persist

To lie on cold concrete surrounded by mist


I exhilarate to alleviate

But moonshine makes my brain restsate

That tomorrow will be summum bonum

Now wishing the hangover wasn’t such a problem


So I present my life to an audience

Whose eyes harangue abhorrence

Excellence then becomes too far to reach

And they leave me, broken to bleed.”