Category: creative writing
It’s not very oftenyet just enough,when my tongue glideselegantly so,To put ballet to shame; Its rhythm sings poemsrich with lore, lure, and lies. Lies have only proven kind to the truth, until they are silenced;No sword killshalf as goryas the one forgedbehind the veil of secrets. It’s not very oftenyet just enough,when hearts don’t waltz in lovejust like they are known to-rather,they run to dig a scardeep … Read More When silence dawned over…
Four walls, a number of bricks, and here you sit in the middle of this room finding solace in your own flesh and love in the mirrors. Mirrors, though, seldom lie. They may lie about a few harsh truths, though ‘lack of love’ stands high on the list. You stand in front of this silvered piece of carefully cut glass, staring at every part … Read More You will love…
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Glass boxes don’t sing lore to the warriors of freedom when the skies fall and the waters rise. But, skies don’t fall and waters don’t rise in vain; they sob in vile. There are a number of things that may conjure disdain into this world, but no other blade yearns to be struck with thunder as much as the one sitting on the hilt … Read More You will heal…
Water flows through creeks and crevices of withered mountains when it rains over their pride ridden heads. Heads, as they say, are meant to be held high; necks, as we have seen, break under the curse of ego sometimes. In the end, if you don’t step over this grandeur and pay courtesy to love, a weak neck will make you fall into it someday. … Read More Hiraeth
It is a fresh sunny day. You are strolling on this narrow street beside a park, listening to children giggling, riding high on their summer spirits. The grass is tender. It is like a newborn baby that just made its way out of its mother’s womb; too scared to face the world, but too pure to feel the fear. It is the peak of … Read More clichés.
Trigger Warning: Child Abuse A few days ago, My lover had my hands in his; I loved the way his eyes sparkled And his lips curved into a stunning smile, As he brushed his fingers At the back of my palm There we were, Living the blissful moments of Our once-in-a-lifetime romance; But then, All my metaphors came down crashing Falling into a white … Read More my childhood speaks in these scars.
Our history has known cages; Of all kinds and characters. The one with bars of gold And the others with floors of dirt. The ones which held the innocent And the others which freed the ghouls. But not very often, When you walk through the pages Of your own history, You land up Imprisoned. Imprisoned behind the walls of Some doomed silvered glasses. Imprisoned … Read More Cages…
Often, in life, you spend your lazy Sunday afternoons staring at the ceiling and missing… Someone. Something. Everything. These are the times when you can’t help but fall down an abyss of old and dusted picture albums. The pages turn so fast that this show seems like an unending retro movie titled, “All the times you failed to live a smile”. Scenes are hazy, … Read More i have felt alone.
Your song is a choir of rushed strokes of black hollow paint on a white anxious canvas dangling free. Free. From a lone nail on a brick wall standing old behind the house of your dreams. You bury the dead behind it. They rise up as demons on starry nights and throw an embrace around your weary tense bruised neck. You love them. They … Read More pause.
I am drowning. There is a fire in my head and it’s stinging at the back of my throat. My feet weigh a hundred pounds and I am scared to take another step. My heart is dancing to its own rhythm, but, the beats are heavy metal now; I killed the symphony for a few cheap tears. Air feels like poisoned water and the … Read More Dear Anxiety,
Black and burnt hearts fall down to ashes when you aim at them with the cupid’s arrow. If that doesn’t scare you enough against love stories gone rogue, then you may want to grab a glimpse of the poison spat rose pressed in the old and worn pages of a happy love story. Heartbreaks are like untimely deaths, and the tears that follow are … Read More Burns and Ashes
Blind Goldsmiths hate silver just as much as their wives hate gold. It must be a tragedy when you happen to lose the key to your craft, and this has to be the most painful of all deaths artists can call upon themselves. Talking about art, it can’t be understood as anything less than sorcery. You take abstracts, spin them into a few harsh … Read More Art and The Conflicted Face of Humanity