Will you forget?
You ask.

Haven’t you?
All the things we had, all the things we dreamt to be?
But I don’t really say all that.
I look into your eyes.
All I see, is fear. Fear of not being so loved.
Fear of not finding love again.
More so of not being given attention to.

You see,
Memories have been made.
Soon this conversation will be a memory too.
It depends on you, if you want to keep them alive.
Our promises?
I’m asking far too much, ain’t I?
You hold me,
In your arms.
Cold heart, but warm arms.
It feels like walking on hot sand,
And freezing your fingers.
You whisper,
It’s going to be okay
I’ll be gone
You won’t remember any of this.

I smile.
Trying to convince me or yourself?
Tell me now,
Tell me quick.
Will you? Forget it all?

I feel your hands turning cold
And my fingers becoming numb.
I ask you,
Should I?
You look at me
Not really surprised,
Smile, as your tears roll down your cheeks.
And whisper,
Oh, I love you!
I rephrase my question now,
Shall I?

Picture by Alice Alinari (Unsplash)

Souls on Fire

Cigarettes is a subject that often interests me and I cannot help but write about them. I don’t hate smokers infact, I envy them. This was written with no moral principle, but just a creative attempt on understanding love for smoking.

Hush, don’t speak

Succumb to me, I’ll last more than a week
I’ll make you cry
I’ll provoke you to try

Breath in this temporary solace
There’s nothing you can’t face.
I subtly usher
You see, we’re meant to be together.

In your fingers, I’m an ardent resident
Tasting your lips, hardly reluctant.
I make you turn a blind eye
To the lackluster in truths; hear the lies

I see an anomaly
In you, with love unmatched by none.
Darling, I’m a sanctuary,
Maybe a mistake too, which can’t be undone.

In this pursuit of happiness
I would still choose to be a barrage
For you and I will last forever,
When there’s nothing left to sabotage.

– a cigarette’s diary.

Picture by Mathew Macquarrie (Unsplash)



This was written on an insomniac night, when words were trying to make sense, and the night was just too gentle, I would say. It is probably one of my first poems in my searching-for-meaning-in-life phase.

Thoughts, mostly intriguing.

They occur only during the nights especially when there’s a connection within yourself that you embrace yet suppress.

Thoughts, mostly unapologetic.
You’re wide awake, thirsty, for water or for some peace? Or maybe both. You get up to get a glass of water. Your legs fall weak. You get back to staring at the still curtains.
Thoughts, mostly hindered.
There’s a familiar tune that sings to the rhythm of your heartbeat, but you’re wide awake thinking should I dance to that?
Thoughts, mostly dangerous.
What if I didn’t know how to dance?
What if there is no rhythm?
And that simple “what if” keeps you awake till the sun shines its bright rays on your face. Perhaps a little too bright.

Picture by Megan Te Boekhor (Unsplash)



This piece is the closest to my heart. I had written this with a soggy face, in a noisy crowd, in a classroom, as far as my memory goes. I was evolving and I still am. But I will not hesitate to say that I was a beautiful wallflower.

Did I mention, that I can write too when y’all talked about the jams and poems?

Did I mention, that I laugh too, looking at myself when y’all confessed that you laugh at how weird y’all are?

Did I mention, that I cry in the bathroom alone sometimes just like how you do when you feel cold?

Did I mention, that I watch the same show again and again because it feels like the first time, when you said you’re more like Ross?

Did I mention, that I binge eat as well when I have no one to talk to and make them understand my feelings when you smiled and told me that you’re okay, eating like you haven’t eaten in days?

Did I mention, that really, I’m just like y’all?
Did I mention, that I don’t really try to fit in?
I didn’t, did I?
Now, that’s just me.
A wallflower.

Picture by Rebecca Matthews (Unsplash)


I always found love a topic too cliche to write on and lust, something that was overly interpreted, so I tried mixing both in hopes of creating something new and something that I would go back and read to my future lovers.

You call me at 3 am
And I succumb you to you, when you’re high.
Are we just friends? ‘yes’, you answer
You provoke me to confess, but you bid goodbye.

You feel my hands and call it solace,
Wine dripping from my red lip,
You want to taste you say,
Your hands are on my hips.

Honey do you listen to yourself?
When you usher me to go?
We danced under the moonlight,
You called me baby; did you know?

You choose to be an unfaithful resident
My heart now feels like a tissue
We spend the weekends on your bed,
You ask, “is that an issue?”

You meet me and mumble to yourself
“why don’t you see the lackluster in this?”
I smile, and walk away, only to be alerted by the doorbell the next day
You say, “All of you, I now miss

You’re an anomaly”, you say, “you’re unique”
I want to shut you off, but I let you in
You caress me, with a future that’s bleak
I feel a volcano, heating within.

Your touch feels like an undiscovered sanctuary
Didn’t y heart know better?
We pursue each other
Only to depart later.

I am bad at goodbyes, you say,
Your memories now feel like a barrage
This is a game we continue to play,
But will it all end today?

Picture by Evan Dennis (Unsplash)

If pleasure could speak

Pleasure, erotica and fantasies are often associated with sex and lust. I simply wanted to bring out the different acts of pleasures apart from making love and this is the result!

If pleasure could speak it would talk 
About the unimaginable joy,

Of biting into that juicy mango in the summer heat.
It would describe the hands soaked in delight
And the mouth, that is now, too sweet.

If pleasure could speak it would tell,
How amusing it is to be a part of a poem
It would feel so significant, for a writer, to write.
It would question itself if it’s just all for the excitement,
Or for the poet to answer questions that used to bite.

If pleasure could speak it would tell,
How honored it is
To be a part of a loving couple
It would speak of endless touches,
And resounding laughter between those cuddles.

If pleasure could speak it would tell,
How it has lowered its own dignity
How it craves for not breathing in humans
When the consent plays the silent game,
When decency and sanctity become the size of a cumin.

If pleasure could speak it would tell,
How annoyingly thrilling it is
To be a part of an extra marital affair.
How guilt isn’t a place in its heart,
But there isn’t much trust that it can declare.

Picture by Austin Schmid (Unsplash)