A ghost with a beating heart

A ghost with a beating heart

I’ve been asked
‘Are you okay?’
Way too many times.
And I’ve answered
Way too many times
‘I am fine.’
My voice has been firm
Quite unlike my smile
That trembles
For just a little while
But manages to lie.
I try.
There are no cuts
On my hand,
And no dust
On my shoulder.
It’s just
My damn eyes.
They cannot seem to lie.
I’ve been asked
Way too many times
I’m tired.
But I’ve answered
Every single time
‘I am fine.’


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : 13 reasons why.
Related post : The thin line.

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The one with women.

The number in the first two statistics are true and have been taken from here and here. This is here to spread awareness, and not to degrade or leave out men. Smile everyone! Also, leave a comment telling about what problems any one of you have faced.


One in every six women has been sexually assaulted,
and accused of “asking for it”,
or facing it because men,
(being the beasts that they can sometimes be),
cannot control their desires and should not be blamed for it.

One in every four women has been denied opportunities,
of climbing the gold-coated staircase.
The staircase of power and creative possibilities,
has been reserved for men,
(and at times women who agree to sleep with them).

One in every two women has a horror story,
to tell that will send shivers up your very existence,
for the story monsters are human beings
with pride horns and intentions like a sharp crooked teeth,
and darkness that doesn’t go away with a switch.

One in every one woman has given her all,
so that mankind can be kind,
and the world can be truly called a beautiful place.


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Instagram handle: @myspirals

Previous post: Family.
Related post: Life.

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Languages, medicines and magicians.

What has music been for you? Let me know in the comment section below! Enjoy reading. Instagram handle: @myspirals


“Music is a safe kind of high.” – Jimi Hendrix

Music is a language, a medicine and a magic trick. Dance to it.

  • Music was his mother-tongue. His tongue fumbled when he spoke English as if it were a foreign language that he hadn’t heard all his life, but when he was alone, he hummed a tune and did not miss a single note. He stuttered and shied away from conversations with strangers, but sang songs with a broad grin around camp fires. When he wasn’t feeling alright, he would shut out completely and listen to music as he thought and thought about what had gone wrong, but you could find small clues hidden in his playlist to make him feel alright.
  • Her soul had been crushed into absolute pieces and her heart had cuts all over. There was a constant ache, that seemed to run like blood in her veins and pillows couldn’t drown it out. But earplugs seemed to drive the pain away completely, or at least numb it. As the lyrics stopped her mind from wandering about, and the music brought her a much-needed gift, she could smile without wanting to scream. Music was her band-aid and no one could rip it off her scars. For her, music was like a steady dose of pain-killers and peace. Music was the only pillow that could drown out the screams, and it was the only shoulder she could cry on.
  • He was broke and broken, but managed to get into the bar right across the street. He needed to feel lost and alive, and so he stepped onto the dance-floor swarmed with broken hearts and night-outs. The music was loud enough to make him disappear as his feet moved about in an unsteady pace. The broken pieces of his heart rattled against each other, but no one could hear it. The pieces slammed against each other and broke into smaller pieces until all that was left was dust. He smiled as he took the dust and blew on it, as if it were fairy-dust and his wishes were going to come true.

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Previous post: Travel bird.
Related post: Mirages and ink bottles.

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Empty hearts.

So I tried something new in which I had to write the poetry in exactly a hundred words. Do read it and leave anything you’d like to say in the comments. Instagram handle: @myspirals


“So, what does it feel like to be empty?”

“Everyone is made of poetries,
and to have that inside of you
but no voice or walls for it to echo,
it can be hard to describe,
if not impossible.

It feels like a sinking Titanic,
that is too cold to realize,
that its life is etching away.
It feels like a long stretch of silence,
that screams out stories
and unheard rants.
It feels like a mirage
that you’ve somehow reached,
and you live the illusion.

I don’t know, really.
It feels like a nothing in a something.
Numb. Empty.”


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Previous post: Addictions and lies.
Related post: Hope and caution. 

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Whisky Words: Project (5)

This is Submission FIVE of The Whiskey Words. The Whiskey Words is a writing project (and a giveaway), and if you’d like to participate, here are the rules.


The woman of substance

The tattoo on my collarbone,
Attracting the bees around,
Is a symbol of my girly bone
In the moonshine.
My curves are judged
In the outfit of my free style,
It is the thinking which got fucked
In the lifestyle.
My flaws are criticized
In the hypocrisy of the perfect world.
Categorization was accepted
In the blindfold.
My eyes water
In the affection of my admirers
Forgetting the pain of my
Blood and milk.
Am I black or white
In the eyes of karma?
Underestimating my strength
In the hues of melodrama
My beauty is in question
Of my unread lessons
Having a loyal intention
To be read in person.
The mother, the wife, the daughter
In the drama of life
Asking the glory to salute
The women of substance.

– Bhavya Prabhakar (blog)