404 Happiness not found

There are bugs in my head.
They scurry around in the squalor.
Ochre- green pests can be squashed dead.
Yet, Bitter thoughts fight with valour.

Perhaps the bug is a binary error,
The kind mum fixes on transcontinental databases ,
Maybe that’s why her embrace,
makes the thoughts so scarce.

Maybe the bug is a glitch ?
The ones between the pixels ,
Of dusty old games
At the bottom of my drawer.

I’ll just sit tight.
Knees against my chest.
As my brother resets the game,
to vanquish the glitch.

Sometimes it’s time for a game over.
cause melancholy is OP as shit

OP = overpowered

(Pic- drawn by me)


The Voice of Violence

Hardwired, embedded
in a young mind,
cauterized and calcified
in premature flesh
and undeveloped bones .

I emerge from the womb,
kicking and screaming.
I’m a latent seed
sowed by primal needs.

A child’s mind is a star,
nurtured by a nebula
of violence,
masquerading as discipline.

A violent vertigo of blows,
both to the psyche and bone,
helps me spread my wings
drenched in sorrow and dejection.

One summer morn’
my protégé spots the seed
in his only begotten son.
Will he let me grow ?
like the one before him(like father like son)

Nipped at the bud,
Encased; and encaged with,
bars made of
love and empathy.

The seed of love,
is sowed and watered
in both,
blank slate and protégé.

Host by my own petard
defeated by a repentent father,
I retreat to diminish,
in their collective subconscious.

A defeated parasite ,
The transient cycle ,
thrawt by one peaceful child.
The voice of violence begins to fade .


Click click click

Bleached white walls ,tilted frames ,marble tiles ,beige headboard ,navy blue sheets and sunflower curtains

A creaky fan’s torque ,
respite to my sweaty limbs.

Dslr in his large palms,
Sticky white fluid on my tiny fingers.
Aching back and bloody undies .

“Spread your legs , princess .Tilt you neck ”
as clothes scatter onto the floor ,
I fold myself into origami shapes

and he clicks clicks clicks
(pic- drawn by me)

Iridescent Kites

Instead of slumber ,
she mends nouns and interjections,
weaving in conjunctions.


Phrases crochet’d at seams;

her similies aren’t what they seem.


Few moths bicker.

As the street lights flicker .


Dappled light on her notepad.

Ink smudges ‘tween her fingers. (one stray spot beside her chapped rose lips)
Lips pressed tight ,
Brow furrowed on her right .
She writes about iridescent Kites .


Flying high ,

(Way above little girls and fireflies )
Zipping past strips of cirri.
(Irked by a sun that will never rise)


Brushes and blotches

Of a hazy grey
Large looming masses
Of purple and clay
Gather at horizon.( near, but not too close )



for now the the little kite
flies happy cartwheels;
(A sun that will never rise )
Just like a little girl
who rubs her cold brittle feet.


Few moths bicker.

As the street lights flicker .


my feet ,

like puppets                                                 with cut strings ,

dead men and dreams .

bullets of steel

rang his *Knell.

*A death knell is the ringing of a bell to announce a death. This is also called tolling the bell.
** The ” beneath your feet ” can signify leaders of countries at war. They sit in their ivory towers waging wars which affect the lives of millions .
*** Should I stop writing these author’s notes ?

Crowds and Mediocrity

Some follow the crowd; and become imitations .
Their voices and ambitions muffled by inhibitions .
Some break free from their shackles .
And produce oh! so many miracles .


Both paths carry risks .
But its upto you to remise.


Which path do YOU choose ?
Time’s runnin out, your life’s on the noose.


Break norms or embrace mediocrity.
Remember , in the end you are your own crtic.



Sound and fury ;
Will you be my jury ?

Time and tide ;
Will you wash away my trials ?

Kites of hope
Soar into the yonder .

Filled with hope ,
I wonder

Many don’t want to provide refuge to Syrians after the Paris attacks . Hence , the misdirected sound and fury(anger) of the world is a refugee’s jury. Trials, tribulations and hope are other themes in this poem.


I fall,

Onto a bed of jagged rocks and broken sea shells.

Wisps of melancholy follow my yells.

Darkness encompasses everything nice.

My mouth feels like husks of rice.

Moth to a flame;

I fly to the fridge.

Follow the incandescent light,

to end my fight.

Warmth fills my insides.

I go where Nutella resides.