I wanted my life to be a fable; so I had become the story teller. The world, my audience and I, a liar. I wished for them to be merry; so they have become my joke and I, their jester. I desired for nothing; but the world had become desirable and I, miserable.


What you read isn’t my story; don’t try reading in between the lines. The words that tell my tales are struck off and horridly concealed. Every happy spell is contaminated by the knowledge of how fleeting such moments are and how life is spent trying to disentangle this contingency. There’s no life on paper, neither…

Ain’t no word.

“I’m a book” she said “you can either be a chapter or a page, you decide” I wanna be neither, honey; I either own the book or borrow.

I’ve learned That there’s serenity in places what lead to nowhere; in questions that have no answers and answers that demand no questions. Don’t mistake it for ignorance, you, it is not. For I am free; free to make my own path, to seek answers and live to be a story.

I am.

I am a biological sculpture drenched in sensory activities, capable of exhibiting emotions. My mind hides words and my talks become stories. I live a life of metaphors and ironies; change faces, cover my skin and masquerade. What I tread becomes my path, where I stand is my land; What I breathe is what I…


We’re stories. You, me, him, her; we all are and the best part is not knowing what’s true. So tell me, who are you?


They tell tales. Tales become songs, Songs hide stories. Stories become myths, Myths morph into lies. Lies are believed to be the truth and Truth is becomes a tale. I don’t give a flying fuck.

Looking back

The past is filled with stories and the future, fantasies. This is now. Neither do I have a story nor a fantasy. The photograph I hold is dear to me; in it, I see a happy man. A possible story. A certain fantasy. How the tables have turned. I look at it and whisper “I…


Would you take a life if I asked you to? Don’t worry, don’t do it for free; make sure it’s painless, if you can’t, let it be quick and clean. Does it take long? Talk; spend some time with me. I’ll tell you stories of life, death and everything in between. Tell me. Would you…


Don’t ask me what is wrong,Don’t tell me what is right;Don’t say there will be lightAt the end of the night. Don’t expect me to be strong,Stop looking for a fight;Within me liesA never ending fright. There are blacks,There is white,The Grays you don’t noticeIs what we call life;You give me your timeAnd you will…


Stone pines. Tall, rich stone pines. Why now? Because they were passing by; no, actually she was passing by. Stone pines. On both sides of the road. What lay behind those? Grass and other trees of course but who cares? She could only see stone pines. They’re the only ones she could name. The rest…


The cracked open lips that bleed tell you no tales of the coldness that dried them up. The dirt in my nails decorate fingers with the untidiness of life. Why do you bother yourself with how tasteless I am with the clothes I wear? Don’t they speak for themselves? The shoes don’t match, man, the…

Oh duck!

Life with you is like listening to ‘Despacito’; I don’t understand shit but I kinda like it. How many times have I tried singing along! If only I spent that time in improving myself or trying to understand you. Well I know both the attempts are futile but still worth a shot. Right?? I don’t…

The way it is.

You were the same old song With different lyrics; Ours was a different story With the same ending; Everything that comes together Has to fall apart. Anything that moves away Will know it’s place; In due time.

Shall we??

Replay, relive; Retell, believe. Dance again, Holding hands again, Sing along This story is ours We shall write again


If life was a book And you were the lead I’m that guy you’d always love And readers love to hate

The cold closure.

There’s a knife through my back Reaching my bleeding heart Leaving behind a crimson trail There’s a sword through my mind Creeping up on my weeping soul Where your sweet laughter hails The scar on my arm Singing our story To the vagabond, numb and frail There’s a tear on your cheek Watching the world…