Quill, Write Ups

Peter Pan

Dear peter pan,

Whenever a small version of me woke up in the middle of the night, scared of demons in her dreams, my mum would be right there, ready with a story book and an aura of comfort only she could provide to fill the void of the dark night.

As I lay on my favorite storyteller’s lap, which would always be more homely than my bed, she would read out the title nice and loud:

“Peter Pan, the boy could not grow up.”

And soon I found myself floating in the adventures of a boy too cocky for his own good, a self-centered, bumptious boy who seeks the extremities of his fantasies.

As days passed, there was a constant clash between the beasts who reveled in keeping me awake in the middle of the night and the sweet voice of my mum who lulled a so very pleasant tale of a not so very pleasant boy.

And I started believing in you, started in the Kensington Gardens, started believing in flying, in the wonders of being audacious, in evil and in just a little bit of tinker.

But, above all, I believed in staying young till the very end of eternity.

‘Children have minds that run at speeds; adults could never pace up to.’ Mum used to smile and tell, with a chest filled with pride, to others, to me, to herself.

‘Everything has a price, honey’ she’d say cautiously at times. ‘For Peter must forget all about his adventures and what he learns about the world to stay childlike.’

But as my feet grew, my hands bittered, my tongue dried up and my height rose, so did the expectations of this world.

I remember sitting on the window and waiting for a perpetual sight, bright eyes shining with a hopeful future, a smirk that won’t go away, a sharp red nose, rosy cheeks, viciously pink lips with a melodious voice that would be so pompous that I’d be inspired to leave this worldy mess within seconds.

But, alas, my only company in those lonesome nights would be the scars of the moon; praised by all for it’s beauty.

Have I failed you or you me?

Was I banished to nowhereland without even existing in your team of lost boys?

Why did you give up on me and my escapade before even understanding me?

Maybe I deserved it because of the ridiculous aspirations I had from a boy who could not love for the sake of this undying youth.

When I stand in front of the mirror, I see a lady, a lady in distress, her eyes bloodshot, she waves a bottle of alcohol so as to hypnotize herself to be happy perhaps, she’s covered up in wounds of the past; cleverly hidden underneath tons of makeup.

What has become of the lively adolescent that once stood in her place, the one who was crazy enough to imagine her life as a tiny bud forever, who was moronic enough to imagine that creations lasted and quiet.

My uncanny truth has indeed damaged the very essence of my childhood.

I’ve lost my belief, my dear pan.

Glittery tears, where’s my fairy dust?

Yours truly,

A lost girl you never found.

Poetry, Quill


Through the dripping hollows of my resentful body,
Beneath the scarlet branches of my bosom,
Constellations stretched alongside the soft hair that defines my femininity,
Near the flower forced to blossom, drenched in blood that proves my femininity
Calloused hands: the doom of my body
Time slips across the temple of my patched skin
The torn veil of sanity brushed over parts that lie numb
My body is just an addition to the sea of bodies that drown in the entirety of a teardrop planet.
A wave of darkness; the tyranny of the body ends here, and my soul escapes.
It floats through the sadness the body drowned in while it was alive,
There’s no sailor the siren can allure,
There is no flesh, the skin rots.
What fed is now feast.

Brevity, Quill



As I sleep today, the images of a happier and younger you flash in my dream and involuntarily, I smile in my sleep.
I wake up to your face staring me right in the eyes, the look I have always dreaded; firmly set on your luring face.
I look away and your burning gaze remains unchanged.
I walk upto where you have been sitting, your gaze still unmoved, I try to shake you alive, but the deadness in your flesh says exactly what my ears don’t want to hear.
I still have to figure out what gave up first, your body or your heart?
I still see your body as it was when you first climbed that chair to when you sat there at your end.
I still hear your weak voice telling me that one day you’ll achieve eternal sleep.

Brevity, Quill



When you tell me enthusiastically that sleep consumed you into it’s restful embrace, I believe you.
When you tell me of the giant clown that ran after you in your dream, I laugh with you.
When you tell me you woke up gasping for water, I assure you it was just a dream.
And when your smile starts to fade away like the memories of a baby as he grows older, I start to worry again.
What if your dreams are getting influenced by the exact same reality you want to run away from?
What’s if sleep is not longer your safe place?
How am I supposed to protect you from yourself then?
To elude myself of my failure yet again, I tell you to sleep. .

Brevity, Quill



When the growing pains of your melancholic heart ring as loud as the holy bells, I tell you to sleep.
When your psychologist contacts me about how you relapsed again, I tell you to sleep.
When your beautiful mind does nothing but disintegrate, I tell you to sleep.
When your bloodshot eyes are blinded by red, I tell you to lay down and close those eyes that once saw the world not as what it was but what it could be.
I tell you to rest your tired mouth that no longer sings of brave women.
I tell you to sleep because it’s the only way you’d drown your sorrows, it’s the only way you’d dream of unimaginable happiness again.

Poetry, Quill

Destructions That Fix

Part 3

Once in a while, you lose your vision and gain something far more important.

You gain the sight to see the galaxies that cover up your skin, that speak highly of how much you need to care about yourself, of how often you need to see yourself and remind yourself that you are enough.

The scent of the colours that damage your skin doesn’t define you, it guides you.

It guides you through a journey that is worth a billion years of darkness just to realize the importance of light.

The journey ends when you find your scent, when you don’t need to see galaxies in your body to know you are extraordinary.

It ends when you know you are extraordinary.

And just like that, you kiss your wounds and thank your crazed up mind for creating something so harmful that it cures because damage sure does bring happiness, doesn’t it?

Poetry, Quill

Destructions That Fix


Every once in a while, your hands are not yours anymore.

They belong to the infinites of the sky that seem so close but are so far.

The colours; that speak of crimes; seem to pleasantly spread across your hands.

And voluntary actions change into involuntary sensations.

The colours on your hands caress the colours of the vibrant sun.

The soft touches of its rays burn into your timid hands and you feel alive.

It is a mystery worth a million years of experiencing burns on every inch of your colourful and soft skin, isn’t it?

How can damage bring happiness?

Poetry, Quill

Destructions That Fix

Part 1

Every once in a while, your skin doesn’t feel the same anymore,

When you feel the cracks of your unending skin widening and the colors that fill you up exploding

And you bathe in the dripping insanity of those colours that violate the innocence of your skin.

These colours hurt the skin that hurt your soul.

These colours make you feel safe even if the sense of calm and peace is a far-fetched idea.

It is a mystery worth drowning a billion years in the suffocating thick shallows of these colours that make you up, isn’t it?

How can damage bring happiness?



My skin weathers away into dust;

Scarlet with the blood of thirsty nomads


“Within and without”

Worshipped the tyrants: all too many, all at once,
Kissed the inferno, and got their faces burnt,
Besmirching humanity,
The posterity was in death’s eternal cold,
Thorny lips, dripping honey.