Self-love or otherwise.

Self-love or otherwise.

Your first attempt at love
teaches you true love.
The ‘I’ve got to make this work’ kind,
the innocent, ‘vanilla is the best’ kind,
the unconditional, ‘always? always.’ kind.
For me, the girl was a reincarnation
of everything I had ever loved.
There were no terms and conditions,
no warnings,
and we didn’t take steps one day at a time.
Our bed was a cosmic sky of fairly dust
and we didn’t need hope.
There were a few fights
here on text messages
there on WhatsApp statuses,
but all was good forever
till one day it wasn’t.

Continue reading Self-love or otherwise.

Cosmic.

Cosmic.

I visited a dead city once.
It had
no roads, no shelters, no bodies.
There were only broken walls,
shattered roads, and souls –
an aftermath of war.
I believe that after our final lesson
of letting go of life,
the souls learn how to stay
and so among these ruins,
they kick back, relax, and love cosmically
because this graveyard was and is their home.
In the wreckage,
on some stones, I found epitaphs
“A. Stark, died protecting his family”.
On others, I found eulogies written by
one dead friend to another dead friend.
There was destruction here but also a promise
that these souls were safe
from humans.
There was hate but also love,
my fear but also my hope.

I’m scared that the world will end in war,

that the last thing we’ll hear

will be a battlecry or the silent roars of bombs,

that we’ll go out with a big bang too.
We’ll fight for just a day too long

and spit curses,

catapulting us towards oblivion.
I’m afraid that with the flick of a switch,
we’ll ‘factory data reset’ the world

and just like that, cease to exist.
No more history, no more books, no more readers.
Just broken buildings and the howls

of nature. Smoke, ash, death.
I’m very scared that this tendency

of humans to fill in silences with noise

will lead us to destruction
because not many of us understand

that silences and peace are deep conversations

and war is small talk.

But I am also hopeful

that love will save some of us.
When the human call of death comes,

two young souls will hide.
People with hearts so in love that the universe

deems it too big a loss

to lose them.
I’ve always pictured these two kids

finding shelter in the deepest corners

of the world. If need be, the Earth will crack open

and keep them safe inside.
They’ll be put to sleep while heaven

sings them lullabies

and hell itself rises to protect them.
No war, no screams, no hate

will reach them.

And when they’re ready,
they’ll come back up
and be our next Adam and Eve.
I’m hopeful that something as magical
as love
will bring us back to life.


Into stories? – Let’s live forever
Instagram – @myspirals

Stop fucking poetry.

Stop fucking poetry.

“it’s easy to be a writer in 2019”
what makes you think it’s easy
to be a writer ever?
Some get traumatized
by bullying or an early divorce or assault
and they write war cries
down on paper. Every syllable, every decibel,
screaming louder than their oppressors.
It’s the scream, the pain, the voice
of survival.
Some stay happy
because everything worked out
and they pen down crooked smiles
and sunshine on paper. They heal you
one hope at a time.
I write about love
because even though my heart has been broken,
it’s still beating
and I find that magical.
I find it amazing that I can live as a thousand pieces
and love new people in new ways.
I find it beautiful that a broken heart
still falls in love when it needs to.

Continue reading Stop fucking poetry.

Strip-poetry.

Strip-poetry

You taught me poetry doesn’t have to be
long
like
this.
It doesn’t have to rhyme
every single time.
All poetry needs to be is a punch
into someone’s gut
strong enough to make them gasp.
“Poetry is a seed
and you are the sunflower.”
Strip a poem word by word
down to this bare bone,
and you’ll find that poetry
is just a couple of words deep.
Poetry is about when you read it.
Poetry is about how much you need it.

Continue reading Strip-poetry.