Poetry, Quill

Rolling Ricks

Never believe a dragonfly,
Gonna take your eyes away,
Give you but a wicked smile,
You wish to find another way,
Up, now, it’s time to go.

Never follow, never be led astray,
Gonna leave you all alone,
Let me guide you through the streets,
You know you want to go home,
Down, it’s alright, go to bed.

Never be heard, nor seen,
Gonna hurt you, let it be,
Run away, I’ll follow you,
Around the eagle’s creek,
And when you least expect it,
Desert your soul, chances bleak,
You know it’s time to go.

Poetry, Quill

Sit Beside Me

But the best things are meant to end as well,
And anything you feel will always end too soon,
And no sooner will you feel it,
No longer believe it,
But the memory of remembrance with always, ALWAYS stay,
And when you see it again, it won’t feel like home,
You’ll know it’s yours again, but you’re never the same,
And flow again, like dragonflies, for nothing really stays,
But then again, those moments they, they never really go away,
Come again to find me, I’m here on my own,
Sit beside me some day, and leave if you wish,
But be happy that none of us exist.

Poetry, Quill


I’m certain I’m there,
Though I don’t know for sure,
And perhaps I want to believe.

I want to be better,
I tried, I swear,
I tried to never be me.

And that’s what you want,
Oh look here we are,
It was never enough to be me.

Go on then father,
Blessed be thy name,
Go on and make me complete.

Colour your blade,
Bind me in chains,
Slay me or just let me be.

Poetry, Quill


I sometimes like to walk in the rain,
I find myself being me.

Hundreds of thousands of drops of paint,
What is this freedom I breathe?

And then shhh silence,
No fall anymore.

Penchant for sadness,
Never was I sure.

Finish this wonder,
Be gone, my love.

Bring back my teardrops,
My pearls from above.

Poetry, Quill

Bravehearts In A War

Bravehearts often fall asleep,
With wounds inside their minds,
Yet silently they wash away,
Crimson off their eyes,

War is noble, war is good,
Preach it to a child,
And soon enough all it knows,
Is war torments the kind,

And all you wanted was for men,
To be vicious and vile,
To slay your foe, to be an end,
To all that made one smile,

You wanted war and all was lost,
Beasts kept running wild,
You might’ve won, but at what cost,
Again, I see that child,

Guillotine upon your neck,
A fire in its eyes,
Alas a monster that you made,
Was causing your demise,

“Don’t be scared now, be a man”,
I hear it in my brain,
I’m still afraid and I’ll always be,
But I’ll be a man again,

“Cry like a man”, I’ll tell my child,
For I know those tears are pure,
He’ll be whatever he wants to be,
Of that I will make sure,
I hope he opens up to me,
So those wounds could still be cured,
Oh what a braveheart that must be,
Unafraid to be insecure.


Pretty Empty

The air smells like a wildfire,
And I keep breathing it in,
I’ve found myself drawn to windows,
And balconies keep whispering,
They love it when I’m not around,
It’s silent and I make it grim,
Some things are best left emptied out,
It’s pretty when it’s never seen,
Perhaps that’s why I feel a void,
A void where no one’s ever been,
It’s pretty enough to hurt my eyes,
It’s best to leave it buried within,
I wish to come another time,
But I wouldn’t dare to begin.

Poetry, Quill


प्यार बोहत है उसको मुझसे,

मगर गुस्से में शायद, 

आज हाथ उसके झूल गए,

कैसा बेदर्द इष्क है तेरा,

क्यों ले रहा कुर्बानी,

औरत हूं, कोई पाप नहीं,

पर इस प्यार, इष्क़, मोहब्बत में,

शायद हम इज्जत देना भूल गए।.

Poetry, Quill

Sinful Ink

The poison is falling off the blade of my pen,

It’s beautiful, the scrawl upon a dead body,

Wonder lies in the breath of a child,

As it climbs atop a tree,

he finds paradise,

But this child is now a part of them,

He poisons his pages,

In the memory of someone he loved,

He paints a picture,

not a thousand words,

Only three would satisfy his heart,

The poison is falling off the blade of my pen,

And it’s clearing my mind and my soul from within,

I want it, not desire it,

I need it, not require it,

My venom is out, it’s flowing from my pen,

My poetry, it opens me, such a beautiful sin.


Echos Of A War Cry

I echo your echoes,
And your cries,
You echo the echoes,
From a million stars,
And I shape my mind,
With burning eyes,
For echoes of echoes,
Are all I see,
And the echoes speak,
Of all misery,
For bad times,
Birth strong men,
Yet weak men,
Birth bad times,
What times are these?,
I ask myself,
Sewn mouths,
And lidded eyes,
Yet “peacefully”,
I shall hold myself,
For peace is struggle,
In disguise,
Peace is patient,
Muffled cries,
I hear the echoes,
Of times of war,
That births from these,
Mundane, peaceful times,
I choose my war,
Over this peace of yours,
For my war has fire,
That purifies,
Burn your rotten,
Selfish peace,
Or my war shall see,
Your sacrifice,
In times like these,
My gods have bled,
And in times like these,
Have tyrants died,
In times like these,
Are echoes spread,
The times like these,
Are your demise.

Poetry, Quill

I’m Happy

And patiently I write what I’ve held in my heart,
For in sadness, I tend to forget times like these,
When the air smells sweet, my arms beneath my chin,
I’m smiling in the winter morning breeze,
It’s hard to remember the times like these.

It should be cold under a few degrees,
But I’m warm for my heart saw you smile at me,
The fog from my breath floats away at dawn,
And the warm fuzzy hoodies that remind you of me,
I hope I remember the times like these.

I’m happy and sadness seems miles away,
The world itself hums a melodious tune,
I blush for the sweet life in front of me,
There’s order, yet a beautiful entropy,
I want to remember the times like these.

And whence comes dusk unexpectedly,
As I sulk away in my balcony,
Sadness caresses my face, calm and composed,
I’ll open this page and read it again,
To make sure, I remember the times like these.