A Scintilla of Thoughts

the cat’s pajamas




carved stones and stained scriptures,

perennial yet

perishable pieces of tarnished souls,

feeding and filling what might have been

a crack –

– in a lonely lifetime

fretting for acceptance by an unforeseeable future;

and so, I’ll dig.

A leader’s conceit, a beggars whimper,

A soldiers struggle, a traveler’s splinter

An expression of a lovers lust,

In a coffin, two bodies trying to adjust;

Rotting, rumbling earthy riddles

Screaming at outlying stars, a pitch harsh enough

To resonate stories – that have been,

And will be.

And will always be.

And so, I’ll dig.

Image : Persistence of Memory, Dali



The yearn for sunlight in a dull and dingy corner or the first drop of rain in vast seas of sand?

Is it really the fulfilment of your needs ; your greed ;
What you have – or have not?

Or is it when
On an empty stomach
You step back and gaze at
how perfectly,
lapped up in a dull and dingy corner
a dainty peacock sobs for a shower

Or is it when
On a ragged beach
You choose the most uncomfortable rock
but it is a perfect spot
to catch a crow spread it’s wings
a contrasting silhouette
on the cherries added in by spring

Pastels put forth by who knows who
interlocking perfectly
creating life
magically devastating even the smartest
of human minds –

– or is it a cold glass of water after a hard day of work?


I want to tell them what my flesh
dies to feel everyday
but they won’t understand.

I go every week, to their home
And the Queer there
Call me weird.
I try to talk to them
They’re comfortable with who they are
but I’m torn.
between who I am,
and who I want to be.

They hug and kiss on the roads
and shed off
what people may say,
but I can’t.
because what I’ve been taught since
I was 6 was
Loving some is good,
but loving others is not.

But I love him,
and my wife cries at home when
I can’t love her.
I can’t even cry.

Why can’t I drape myself
In pastels of yellow, blue, green?
And walk what they call a pride parade?

Why can they express, but
I have to sleep in a closet
Under my fathers stairs?

So I’ll walk into
their home
to see
they bleed pink
or silver
or any colour they’ve painted on their faces.

Why isn’t anyone listening?
Am I alone here?

They bled the color red.

My heart goes out to the families of the victims of the Orlando shooting. In regards to the shooter, it kills me to know that people struggle with their identity every single day, in all corners of the world. We have a long way to go.


Safe in your place, deep in the Earth,
That’s when they’ll know what you’re really worth.
    – Nick Drake

“Unique! Perfect!” they had exclaimed.
When they took a pause and noticed,
The pointless piece of expression.
In which I had tried to
Imprint the neurons in my head
Onto the realms of reality,
Trying to show the world
What it did not mean to me.

Thus it began,
The journey of a desperate genius.
To be noticed,
To be acclaimed as
The one who bled uplifting aesthetic.
And fill my pockets
With coins to feed my stomach.
But they couldn’t feed my soul.
And that’s when I became a success.
Where uninspired,
I made what they admired,
Attention galore,
And my pockets filled up some more.

Where I felt a multitude of superfluous emotions,
Guilt is now all I feel,
Towards the young man who had once
Seen the world differently.


Pick up a pen with your permeable fingers. Your veins, they are visible, and they yearn to leak the sorrow and the joy that trickles in them. Print on paper the meekness of a child, the love of a crow or the sorrow of a rock. Prance with ink and touch the paper with why what she said hurt you today, or why what he said uplifted. Prick the lines with your golden nib and scream at them, scream how obscene society is, how materialism chews at your conscience and how you believe that capitalism is the only way forward. Preach your religion or tickle at being a cynic. Power your words with a world of your own where leprechauns are kings or choose to crash into the reality you live in. Pick up the pen and write, write to change or just because it pains.

Stir emotion, anger, grief. Stir the extremists, the moderates.

Question. Cry. Carve.



I was the wind and I, I brushed past you. You seized to notice, crying inside the beautiful bubble formed by the strings of your withered perception. I stayed for a moment, taking hostage in the trees, whispering to you, whining to you and you’d look at me with rose-tinted glasses and sigh, for I wasn’t yours to breathe. Or so you’d believe.

I was the peacock with a tapestry for wings, and when it would rain, I would hide my tears with an upward gaze and shadow my face with the brilliance of vivid pastel shades. They had been carefully embroidered to please – and distract. You’d look on from a distance and lament, for my joy was not yours to share, my beauty not yours to feel. You’d go  back to sleep in the warmth of your covers while I, I’d pretend to dance in the rain for a glimpse of your glazed, lonely smile.

You were someone who would never find the white daisy in a field of swamp, a daisy which yearned to be plucked by you from the dirt.

Ancora Imparo – Still I Learn

A celebration, to mark the dawn
Of a fresh start
A resolution, to grow
As the past year

Failing to see how, each dawn
Marked with a sunrise,
The moons feeble light
Flooding your doorstep
With a drop of opportunity
As you seek for the sea

To offer lessons each day
An experience in a shot glass
As you stand there and cry
For the bottle of wine
Your throat dry

I rarely write what I feel explicitly, twisting my words to be interpreted by whosoever takes out the time to read them. So here I write what this piece means to me.

Each day I learn, be it the first of January or not. This year has been a roller-coaster of experiences for me, no matter how small, they built me. I have no resolutions this year, except to learn. To grow as a person by imbibing the little things that build my day. (An example would be the Reader, where each time I go, I find a new experience posted by one of you, inspiring me. I have amassed a few blogs I return to regularly, trying to pick up a thing or two.) Each day, I’ll post more, I’ll interact more, I’ll study more. Not be intimidated by the needles, for as Michelangelo put it – Ancora Imparo.



Yet profound

Stringed together

Could bite, or bound

Knots in your throat

Escaping, never to return

Could dance in her ears

Or be lost, forlorn

A for an Apple, B for a Ball, C for a Cat, I was taught in class. I’d learn them by heart, innocent to the trauma or calm these words could inflict, once formulated into the expression of what consumed my head. Where would I be, however, without this power, this prize to express?

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Pride and Joy.”


A subtle shout,
Sinks in with a dutiful doubt.
Born amidst
Complexity and confusion
Sits silently
Trapped in devotion

Each day,
A struggle to escape,
To question, to rant;
Yet well-learnt words,
It will continue to chant.

Numbered years it lives.
Choosing to constrain,
And reform to what it has been taught.
Dancing to traditional notes
As those before it,
When to sing it’s own, it could have fought.

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