Sometimes it’s just a gentle touch

sometimes it’s pure ignorance.


He sits there empty, without an opinion

but always a shoulder, a body

ready to take any burden.


It’s hard to dislike the frame

but easy to criticize and say

“You could have done this”


Maybe the answer he offers is his silence

Maybe he speaks to you without speaking.


Yet at night you can feel so alone, so clueless

but somehow he puts one hand on your head and

mutters a soft prayer;

you feel the futility of emotions

and you wonder

is he living it better than me?

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Why do we need empowerment?


There have been humans who

came out of her body

Without as much as a whiff of



And she has sat through every


Consciously adjusting the length of

her skirt,

Because she didn’t ask for it.


She’s made three meals a day

And bought the bread too

She’s changed the diaper and


A broken heart or two.


So why do you stand there and call her weak?

Why does she call herself weak?


We don’t need you to give us a voice.


If I can stand on my own two feet, I can destroy on my own two feet.

So tell me again,


Why do we need empowerment?

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An Ode To A Rhyme

To laugh at something sad

never came easy to me

thought it didn’t seem so bad

people could laugh at tea

some even at a death.


I once met a man who said

tears are a form of being happy

rise early and go earlier to bed

do your work and make money

if you cry then consider yourself lucky!


another time I met a woman

who never did have a mate

she said make merry and have gin

come what may it is fate

if you can laugh at yourself, dear, you’re ahead!


I came back home and pondered these words

was their much laughter left for me?

they seemed like two birds

clearly stung by the same bee


but the essence of it rung a bell

time was simple

if you don’t make it hell

it could be ample


find your rhymes and merry

and maybe somewhere you’ll meet

your own personal guardian fairy

giving you hope for your heart to beat.


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I look at a photo

the one that was filtered several times,

to make it seem like we had fun.


I breathe in spaces larger than black holes

hoping I can hear the sound of footsteps

before any steps taken.


It all seems too familiar at an arm’s length

a safe speed to be at

chasing and never catching.


I open the chest of memories

and push back the cobwebs.

It hasn’t been that late since,

since illusions seeped in through my cracks.


It hasn’t been that late since I sat in the park

and sat alone by the river.

It’s only a matter of time before a bell jingles close by


the nostalgia comes in lashing through a wave

and I feel happy at the thought of never being there again.

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The Diary

Every year I receive something similar,

Apart from expectations – people think

I can pen down my thoughts.

It comes wrapped in different shapes and sizes,

some hand-made, some glossy

but they all contain the blank canvas.

With hopeful eyes they look at me

thinking I’ll use my pen as a sword, unleash it all.

Sometimes I look back and smile at them

for they have faith in something other than themselves.

Sometimes I think how foolish they are – to trust me

to trust me with words – unarmed, painful mutinies

but every time I unwrap, the artist and the art cry out

one in silence one with glee.

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Stolen glances and shy smiles
made up for lost days.
casual encounters laid the bricks
of a sand castle.
time went slow
and nights turned into doubt.
the frequent kiss was a reminder
that it meant the world.
but the borrowed time ended
and the sign turned red.
the walk of life seemed too long
for a weak fortress,
it crumbled into dust
and the waves lashed over
carrying it to the beautiful sea
forever buried forever deep.

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The tree was cut
right at the trunk.
its roots though were not pulled out,
they stayed underground holding on tight
for dear life.
they talked it out, where do they go now?
do they look for help
up in the sky, in the mirror or just cry?
they hung on for dear life.
one felt they could stay like this forever
just in the mud, brown and sordid
while one felt they should separate
and meet a natural end like all of life.
through this all, water fell on the surface
but they didn’t get wet. they stayed safe
far away inside.
was it so bad to meet an end like that?
they lived on in an abyss of their own,
years later to be found in a museum.

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I called out to you
my voice echoed deep,
into the caves of art and soul
my voice painted itself on the walls
the clay a dark maroon; like the blood coursing through me
it slashed against the wall, telling a story
a story of a time when I didn’t need to be heard
my voice was solitary and loud
the clay maroon and wet; like the saltiness that seeps down my eyes
paints a face of a time that has passed.
the paint moves anonymously like it needs no mind
thats what it was. thats what my voice was.
it splashed through infinity and back running through streams,
meandering across several crossroads. but it reached the cave, the entrance
and it burst against the wall; it expressed itself in maroon, like the song of my veins
incomplete, infertile and free.

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The places we see and the walls we touch
are only seconds away from blasting;
bursting into sentiments and echoes
flames so high that the silence will burn,
leaving a mark in their wake, a battle scar,
the scar of every tear shed by your mother,
by the saint who promised a future,
by the nothingness of freedom.
the fire burns so bright that the earth watches
with glasses made of gold, shading your eyes
from the specks of dust which threaten to film your vision,
to surround you in a cloud of memory;
the polaroid of sins never fading, always shaking
trembling at every touch of skin
because when that brick by brick assembles
there’s no starting point of reference
the layers start to form
and there will always be no exit.

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It had been done with, the sordid, ghastly act.

Surprisingly, I didn’t cry as much as I had assumed I would.

Life didn’t get hazy. In fact, it didn’t get grey at all. I went to work and went on with the rigmarole. Night fell and I still didn’t feel alone. Changing into my pyjamas getting under the sheets with no familiar touch. No, I still didn’t feel alone.

The lock clicked open and the burglar of my dreams walked in. Yes, the minor mistake of a key copy which had not been returned to me. We stared at each other with nothing but a pool of silence between us. Then he came and slept next to me.

Yes, now I felt lonely.

Morning came and he went on out my pastel door. The sun was shining bright as ever and no I wasn’t lonely.

Life was waiting, the rigmarole calling, the chasm deepening and my soul was flying. I would never be alone.

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