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.

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?

A different time.

A different time.

A few things before you start reading. a) This is not like most of my other posts but I’m hoping you still like it just as much, b) the story is based in a different world (which you can figure out yourself but just in case), c) comment and tell me about your happy times. Enjoy!


Hora was a different twenty-year-old. Of course, she was exactly what no one wanted her to be – the creative kid. She lived in a weird city where everyone had latin names and strict destinies. It was believed that it was important to only do what was expected of you to set examples for other worlds, if there were any. Her name was latin for Time and she was a writer.

Continue reading A different time.

The closet for the stars.

The closet for the stars.

This isn’t your 1800s Shakespearean poem. This is the 21s century rendition of the word Poetry. Type: Poem x story-telling. I hope you like it. Comment if you do. Let me know 🙂


The ’90s weren’t easy,
but then now is not very different.
When my father came out as gay
to me,
we had a long chat.
I’d grown up with two dads,
but I’d never questioned why my pigtails
were made with my father’s sturdy hands
when others had it soft.
One day in school made me question why.
When I asked,
he smiled and told me everything.
He told me about the ’90s
like it was a tragic song
with all rhyme but no reason.
He said
‘I was in the closet for 20 years,
and it wasn’t just four wooden walls
grabbing my throats and suffocating me.
It was a Narnia of nightmares.’
Of course, he made fantasy references. I was five.
‘When I came out,
things were very different. Acceptance was
a choice. Not a human right.
It got better.’
He made me understand
everything wrong with ‘time’ when it was young
and made me believe
that things will always get better;
‘the star does not shine on its first day’.

When I turned twelve
and fell in love with my best friend,
she left.
But there was no closet for us stars anymore.
so I smiled and kept looking.
I found better friends
and they stayed.
‘Something is better than nothing’
my father used to say.
I guess we have the ‘something’ today.
It’s time for everything.


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Mud paint and memories.

Mud paint and memories.

Beth was an artist. On some days, she would take half-filled whiskey bottles and paint her boyfriend’s face on it. The skin would be dark and the nose small, the lips chapped and cheeks flushed. She would color every inch except the small circles in the eyes. She would leave that to the sun and whiskey. It had to resemble his eyes, after all. On other days, she would draw little hearts on her cheeks and let his compliments fill it with color and life. Her favorite piece of art didn’t involve her boyfriend at all, though.

The favorite piece of art was a painting she’d made when she was fourteen. Her dog had just passed away and painting was the only way she could cope with the loss of someone she’d lived with all her life. Her dog, Husky, was a military dog when it was young. Beth’s father had brought him home when he had to (for lack of a better word and to make the dog sound more human) retire. Beth was born a month after Husky came home. They were always fascinated by each other. She had started drawing because of him. On a summer morning when she was just four, she was playing with paper when Husky came running into the house. He ran all over the room, including a paper, with muddy feet and that was her first painting. Paw marks.

When he passed away, she drew his picture. She made the background bright red, just the way he would like it and could almost see him wagging his tail as he went crazy because of the color. She colored everything except his body. For the body, she used the mud from where Husky was buried to give his body its natural color. She had it framed and it still hangs on top of her bed. I’ll leave you with a happy memory, though. 

Ever since Beth was born, she had never had food alone. Husky would always be there to have half of it. He ate everything – ice creams, pie, fruits, socks. Everything.


Related: stay.
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