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.

Purple

Purple

I came up with the first two lines and the last two lines about two weeks ago. Then, I used them as a prompt and expanded it into a poem. The thing about prompts for poetry is, it doesn’t have to be one word. It can be an interesting conversation that you come up with or a cool concept you find on the internet. Don’t limit yourself with just a word. Be inspired by anything. I hope you like this poem! (also, I don’t want any of you to miss this in the poem so here goes: red+blue=purple)


You told him your favorite color,
he shrugged and said “okay”.
Six shots down, you wrote I love you
on the back of his white tee
and he never wrote it again.
You were just another “he loves me not”.
Even after you sung him songs,
he slept humming the tune of Lonely – Akon.
There’s this concept of
With the sea in your eyes,
you told him you had to let go
if he didn’t say he loves you, if he didn’t promise a forever.
He shrugged and said “okay”.
It wasn’t an Augustus Waters reference.

Continue reading Purple

Soulmates?

Soulmates?

I had this concept of story telling – palm reading mix for a long time and here it is. I hope you like it!


I met a palm reader once
who convinced me to let him tell me my story.
His readings weren’t conventional –
he came up with stories of past lives
by reading the calligraphy on our hands.
Mukkadar used to be a storyteller but the people
needed some catch to sit for a story,
so he chose this unconventional palm-reading.

Continue reading Soulmates?