Two cans of paint: India and United Arab Emirates 


I let my life mix with my dreams like two coloured cans of paint; the saffron 🇮🇳 mixed with the red, green and black 🇦🇪 until I didn’t know which was what and I didn’t care, I call you home 🏡Dubai is my hustle and my grind, Bangalore is my victory lap and my celebration. Dubai is my heart, Bangalore you’ll always be the blood that pumps through it. Dubai taught be about being not having, Bangalore showed me how blessed I am. Between Dubai and Bangalore, I learn everyday that my glass is always full and refillable. Dubai and Bangalore you make me grow towards the sky while the sun calls my name and the stars light up my pathway. Home is always here and a missed land ❤️

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‘Taal’! Hop Scotch With Me

Numbers and lines that collide with every step, hopping on one foot I jumped through the loops. I threw out a stone and it landed on a number, is this the day I stop to wander? One day I shall find him who hop scotches in my dreams, and we will be able to talk for hours about my long toes, crooked smile and my obsession with ice creams. I’ll know when to find him because he’ll ask me to come play hopscotch with him, too. 💭

Constellations of Hercules 


I’m trapped under this dome of blue, it holds my gaze while changing into different hues. Upon the brilliant starlight, I found the constellation of Hercules. Kissing the horizon, I’ve laid tracks in my head that will take me anywhere. Anywhere; but I can’t bring myself to take a step. I have unpacked my bag of fears, knowing it’s not worthy of the trip, while the dome of light still holds a grip. The dome cracks as light shines upon the darkest parts of my mind, allowing my cuts to be bandaged by the compassionate and kind. My truth to you will not be of ease for me, but in the end will be my ease for I came to you, my dome of light 💡

The Arrogance of The Pen

In the world of poetry, many poets have flung their words across the canvas and painted why the skies take after violent after dark. Marking their name across walls vibrating a bravura. While I double tap on their poetry reading words that echo through my mind. My pen has become arrogant and refuses to write. Poetry doesn’t come to the snobbish. Why do you pride yourself haughty, what have you written that’s so tidy? I’ve put down my pen for just a little while, so I can breathe a world into me that I can explore by ink. Think. It’s the new sexy! Ink. That’s always been amorous. 🖋📝🔏

Winning Against A Dream Catcher

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In a lucid dream it stayed entrapped,
Selling dreams on a string my mind unmapped.
Bring me your dreams and the powers it renders to be true,
Hang me by your bedpost and every web within me will catch you.
A circlet ornately adorned, trailing feathers billowing light;
this dream catcher put my nightmares up to a fight.
Awakened am I as the nightmare roared,
I didn’t even have a chance to use my sword.
Enough! You no longer visit my dreams,
Finally a dream catcher that’s on my team!

Clothes In A Line

He left her hanging, so she hung herself on every word he had said. Her mind had been compromised and she couldn’t form sentences in all the jumbled up mess; of the broken words that fell out in the sun with meaning far less. She broke her nail trying to untie the rope, her face displayed what it was to lose all hope. Swallowed some pills and let the night take her out, no one could tell what ’twas all about. A different colour for everyday she bled, crying through florescent lights with signs of dusky red. She could have been a constellation, but left a tangled mess of veins as her consolation. Her fallen grace had nothing lacking, she hung her sins out to dry maybe laughing. On gusty days when sheets are snapping, the clothes line did a harmony of cracking. One stubborn clothes peg stood triumphant on the line as the last sock flies away sublime.

Dead Skeletons of Dead Fish


Burning rust on the horizon I settle on the bottom of the ocean floor,listening to fish folk stories that yearned to taste the blues of the sky. Dead skeletons of a dead fish lay on the shore, done with all the flipping and flopping, he lay there with his mouth open. Like he had begged for the ocean to take him back. But, it didn’t. It didn’t like most do. Do dead fish have a heaven or hell? Do they have a bucket list or some type of story to tell. Or do they end up like a washed up trick choking depths of unseens sights? Did he wonder what the sky tastes like or did get sick from all the salt in the sea life. Did bigger beasts of the seas put him up to a fight, or was he the one to stay far away from their sight. Has he seen the bottom of the ocean in all its glory, or just swam where the bubbles could rise. Did he swim along the great white sharks in circles or has he spoken to ancient eels from different tides? Has he hovered near sea turtles swimming on their backs for millenniums.
What to him was a mystery? A fish out of water, separated by land and sea.