The story of the trees.

The story of the trees.
Share a story with me in the comments section. Any story, any genre, your choice.


The leaves were falling everywhere
the trees were all heartbroken
the wind blew every once in a while
and often gossipped with the sun.
She loved autumn and wore trench coats
and smiled at the beauty of tragedies.

It was a Sunday morning
– a blind date
Her wrists were clenched
around the hem of her top
Her eyes danced frantically
to the thump of her heart
and she bit on her lip
red lipstick and a drop of blood.
‘Fat’ and ‘Single’ usually ran across the streets
fingers were often pointed at her.

He had chosen the park
as the witness to their first date
the heartbroken trees all rustled and whispered
stories of love and war
they said “We knew Romeo
His story wasn’t that of love
Shakespeare romanticized insanity beautifully
you sit beside us and wait for yours to show,
but learn from Romeo’s mistakes.
Juliet died,
our leaves left us
Make sure you don’t abandon yourself.”

Did he show up?
No.
But that day she danced her way to home.


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post: A nomad’s home
Related post: the last sunset

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You have not seen ruins.

I know I’ve written a lot about war. Last one for quite some time, promise. Enjoy reading this, though! And please spread peace and love.


You have not seen ruins
The way 1945 has.

During the world war,
The schools that taught discipline
learned to have safety drills
and teach antonyms of peace.
The teenager that loved playing football
trained in the army
and often fought for the one thing bigger than him.
Weapons clashed so often,
it drowned all music,
and sang the lyrics of ‘Where we left off’.

I’ll share one story with you.
August 9, Nagasaki.
A three-year-old Yasujiro was playing in his house.
He was tearing the pages of a book
when he was blinded by a white light
like a million camera flashes.
Oh, how I wish it was really just cameras.
He was found under the debris of his house
among many other things
like his broken toys and an open book.
He’s grateful to have survived
But he lost so many things that mattered
His sleep, his hearing, his will to live.
He is happy now.

When someone knows they’ll die
and they get to send one last message
it is always filled with love
it is always an ‘I love you’
an ‘I will miss you’.
You know why?
Because they do,
they will.
Is war really worth the open book?


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post: Stories and poems that we share.
Related post: Wars and families.

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How extraordinary came to be.

I go through a personal tale to explain how the word extraordinary came to be. Bear with me and enjoy reading this! If not, feel free to read this instead.


As a ten-year-old, I always wondered how calling someone extraordinary was a compliment. Why was being more normal considered to be a great thing, and is that what my goal should be? To be a little more of everything that we all are? Apparently, yes. I was a fat kid with chubby cheeks who always had a smile on his face. I cried a lot and laughed even more. As a kid, I could run out of time in a game of Antakshri and still giggle. Pretty women and their hair flips, lipsticks and kind smiles fascinated me. I could play all day and still remember to complete my to-do list.  Continue reading How extraordinary came to be.

Often, not always.

Often, not always.

What problems of your life are you willing to tackle? Tell me in the comments section below. Also, I added a donate button in the footer of my page, so any one who’d like to use it, is appreciated. Love to all of you, fam ∞


The existence of one,
Often justifies another.

I sometimes face a writer’s block,
But it validates my existence as a writer.

An eighteen year old woman,
Carries sanitary napkins in transparent bags,
Because things are changing.
The twenty-four year old however,
Covers every inch of her thighs and cleavage,
Because things aren’t changing,
As fast as they should.

A boy aged fourteen is in the gym,
And every one is shocked and downhearted.
A seventeen year old boy has love handles,
He is fat-shamed.

You are facing a financial crisis,
Your money is now around your neck,
Instead of growing on a metaphorical tree,
But it validates your financial existence.

The existence of one,
Often, not always, justifies another.

A fifteen year old is cutting her wrists,
But not her veins,
So that she dies only a little.
Because this pain will help her forget,
A part of her life.
Bullshit.

A thirty year old is watching a television show,
And is late for work,
Because he doesn’t like his job,
And it isn’t working out anyway.
Bullshit.

I don’t tell her I love her,
She’ll see my chapped lips and hear my slurred speech,
Laugh like a devil disguised as an angel,
And say no.
She definitely won’t say yes, will she?
I am scared and so, reluctant.
Bullshit.

Often, not always.


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : You believe me.
Related post : Hearts

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You believe me.

What is the worst lie you’ve told someone? Did they believe you? Tell me in the comments section below. Also, I added a donate button in the footer of my page, so any one who’d like to use it, is appreciated. Love to all of you, fam ∞


When I tell you her eyes were whisky brown,
And that her husband never hit her,
inside walls of fear,
When I say that her eyes wrinkled,
Her teeth were crooked,
Her trust was a flower in spring,
And that she was submissive,
When I point out that her wrists are not cut,
And that her blood is just like mine,
Her words don’t shiver in the winter society,
And that she smiles a lot,
You believe me.

When I say he is a fighter,
And that he has never broken a heart,
Because he does not have a broken heart,
When I tell you his favorite color is purple,
And that he bleeds ink,
He pulls on his finger and locks the door twenty four times,
And is afraid to say he is in love.
When I point out that he does not know how to flirt,
But he is really charming,
When I say he watches Games of thrones,
And enjoys the nudity,
You believe me.

You believe that I am a writer,
And so my words don’t lie,
And that my heart definitely aches.
You believe I write love poems,
For a specific someone I lost to love or death,
For a specific something I cannot find anymore,
And you believe my lies.
That is why I lie.
Why I say
“I am okay.”


Instagram handle: @myspirals
Previous post : Seduced with love.
Related post : Writer’s block

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