Married at last

She pouts, sits in a corner
Cries like you broke her toy
Throws tantrums,  acts stubbornly
Not listening to reasons, what or why
Runny nose, fistful for hands
Making your temper rise
Tell me,  my love, marrying a child
Why did you consider wise?


I tried to count my woes

But can’t seem to put a number on it

I was never good at maths

I wish I’d paid more attention in class

Been good if not great at it

They said you don’t need maths in life,  much

They were wrong

If x is your pain

And y indifference

Then there is relief somewhere in the answer

I would’ve solved it if I were good with numbers –

Lesser than

Greater than


Subtraction of all the hurt

Do mathematicians fall in love?

Or do they subtract the heart

Multiply doubts

Divide hope until they believe in nothing

But numbers?

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