Writer’s plague

They all love me so that they

Can feature in a poem

Not like I’m Plath or Woolf

But fame comes quicker with a dome

So in their hearts of heart they pray

To make the grave my only home

And claim immortality through me

While a restless dreaded soul I roam

Hello. I hate goodbyes.

Feeds on my soul this
One word that claims me
In a slow purposeless death
Like a child on his first
Day at school
The fear of abandonment,
Mammoth like, hijacks
My entire being

(Bye rhymes well with die)

There should be
No goodbyes
Just hellos
Leave; but turn back once
And say hello

The Wall

There is something between us

As plain as day, or the greens on

A child’s untouched plate 


This space, empty as a hand

That catches wind or

Love in the absence of hate


Nestled between us, resolute as a

Suicide bomber, this wall, its 

Existence eager to satiate

Good boy

My jests are lost on you,

On your fur weaved with realism

Like a tic it pinches, you scratch

With a look of Chaplin


Now I have lost in you

My humour and my interest

Why don’t you just patch

Your virtues with one sin



Good boy.


Not Tonight

Not tonight, I will write not now

First the words will torment,

Build in me like lava created

By a to and fro motion;

White warm lava that will leave

Me with no choice but to release

What is hidden in the folds of my

Proverbial skirts in a flow

Until then, good night, I will definitely

Not write. Not tonight. No.

oil & water

metal strings quiver, under

your knowing fingers

grazing on tightropes

risking my oil heart to a great

fall into the melancholic sea

of your voice, refusing to sink

immiscible fluids you and i

like time and love

never agreeing with one another

never free for the other


Salmon shirt, slumped

I-don’t-care like

Behind semi frosted 

Glass that reveals nor hides

Whatever stands behind (or

In front of it) like that

Salmon sole shoe that faces

Me, speaks of what its 

Master can’t;

Furrowed brows concentrating 

In the seek section

The pout secretively frosted —

Intermittently I feel an affliction

Neither hidden

Nor revealed 


i carried myself unwillingly 

to a new place where i 

swore to myself things will

be different; I will be un-me!

it’s cumbersome to carry 104 lbs

 of unwanted baggage that 

no one misses nor loves, but i

suppose me—

Have you ever hung on to

something you thought would

become valuable one day,

and you’ll be rich?

Ah, but never 104 lbs of it,  

I see