Exhausted and Spent


the air smelled nicotine

the environ rhythmed with fan

the room, lorn one, curtained dimmed.


I lay looking at the ceiling

the fan with flying curtain creating a shade

a mixture of colors of wall, street and–

overcast May sky.


I’m here, but, I’m really here…

the moment, the silence that I lay in

is truth I think, but, am I not misfit…

am I not the piece of puzzle–

that cannot be fit…


loneliness echo, solitude laugh

my depressed soul–tired one–

thinking what can be done

shall I howl and wet my pillow with tears

or shall I lie naked and satiate self…


truth…lie…she…memories…

all clogging me…all strangling me…

the walls is getting me…

–xx–


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A Summer Soft Morning Page

the morning has been long ago here

it is Sunday, so, calm & compose posit in environ.

the curtain of my southern windows playing waves

splashing on my face–bare no spectacles

and the wind flowing on my chest.


no complain,

no sadness,

no blue or jarred feelings.


softness of summer morning sun spread in the azure sky

the clouded sky from last night was a dream it seems.

the wall is chiarascuro beach for the curtains

getting a different shades of the sky everytime on it.


aloofness I felt in the air as I look at the mirror at my feet.

the waves of curtain, the reshading of the wall (and also me)

the vacant space around me; I close my eyes to feel–

this ‘ween everything & nothing–moment of creation.


no words,

no thoughts,

no non-blank page…


Time (Confessional Poem)

the year is coming to the end last we saw each other, we talk to each other.

the second year it is we kissed first…the memory that haunts me most…

how I feel I’ll tell you…definitely…will tell you…but will we ever see each other again…

you had said we’ll meet after twenty years or so like this…but, these days I feel I’ll not be long…

I may be here for a decade or so…

the year is coming to the end last we saw each other, we talk to each other.

the second year it is we made love for the first time…lying on my naked–

you had promised not to leave me….and made me promise to not to leave you…

the memory murmurs around me when I’m all alone…in the room…in the crowd…

the time was on our side…not long but a few months ago…I’ll wait for you on the other side–

of the time…to get my bidding kiss…to hear the bidding speech from you….

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27th March (Confessional Poem)

the shirt that you had gifted…the light purple check shirt…I don’t wear that a’more…

the tee that you had gifted…red in color…which you had put on my naked body–

on my birthday…I don’t wore that a’more…then there’re a black tee, a white shirt…

I don’t wore any of them…how can I…all of them carry the memories of yours…

carry the evenings when in excuse of trying them on you took off what I was wearing–

and then after making love you put them on…how can I wore them….

the mobile that you had gifted I, though, use till now…s’times I post my blog using it…

s’times when I get angry on you…or when you memory titillated me–specially when–

I think the lips that I used to kiss and that shall belong to me; the body that I used to–

adore, that I used kiss all over–are now s’one else…s’one else touch those lips, —

s’one else now adore the soft skin…yes, it’s hurt…that’s why the screen of the phone now–

has a scar, a hair line one, on it…after I had threw it in a moment of over-agony…

today’s date…another thing that I want to forget…that I wish shouldn’t had happened…

I think I’m the only one cling to that memory…that late spring eve, when we had kissed–

at the foot of the equestrian statue of Colonel Outram at Victoria Memorial…two years ago…

this memory and lots more haunts me…pushes me…

the shirts are now a crumple piece of cloth shove at the corner of the almirah…

the phone…I wish could get lost…or could get out of service beyond repair…

the memories are the only one that I can’t throw away…do you remember me…

do you recollect me…our moments of love…do you ever thought of calling me…

didn’t you thought of ever giving our, not me, relationship a chance…

didn’t you ever thought of returning to me…

#A’more is anymore and s’times is sometimes

Daily Prompt: Purple