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)



It was the 4th of May,
No the 5th,

And the sun was bright;
The grass was green;
A Sinatra song was playing,
In the radio.

She rolled in,
In a car with lights.
First they came out,
And then she followed.

The day was still bright,
The grass was still green,
And Frank was still singing,
But she was different.

Mellow words,
Almost spoken in whispers.

Actions bereft of subtlty,
And unhidden tears.

Everything happened on egg shells,
Soft and with caution.

There were moments,
When we didn’t think of yesterday,
And we couldn’t care less,
Of the next day.

In these moments,
We let out laughter,
We were unashamed to smile,
To do the things,
We use to do.

But they were just moments.

And then she left.
It hurt less than it was meant to.

Maybe, she wasn’t who,
I fell in love with,
There wasn’t that energy,
That spark,
That electricity,
That made many an idle night,
The best ones we had ever had.

She was different.

Or maybe,
That summer day,
When the sun was bright,
And the grass green,
When she walked out of,
A car with lights,

I was different.

Picture by Toimetaja Tolkebur (Unsplash)


I’ve lost count.
There one more,
Adds to what dropped before.

Someone opens the door,
And another story is told.
My shoulder,
They hold.
Listen, speak
And repeat once more.

Day break!
Empty room,
Only to realise,
Its afternoon.

Bed cover clutched,
Eyes shut,
Day wasted!

Sleep then eat,
Bus Stop;
Show face;
And dusk again.

Random words,
Empty thoughts,
Pain, Pain, Pain,
Stained shirts,
And there they,
Drop again!

Picture by Levi Xu (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)



Waking up on the back seat,
Of a saturn car,
Knowing, I had some dreams left in me;
Believing this road is where,
I was meant to be;
And singing a song,
That was playing long before,
I was born;
Country roads,
With folds,
Were bringing to my destiny.

Memories were being made,
And left to be remembered,
By those who will remember them,
Long after I am dead and gone.

And just as the song ended,
And the we drove through another fold,
Destiny arrived.

She spoke without words,
And told me,
Drive and dream,
Your destination is your journey,
And maybe,
Your journey,
Is not what you thought it was meant to be.

It was just like that song,
Better, when who sung it was gone.

Picture by John Canelis (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)

Just Like That

It starts,
As a simple indulgence,
And before you know it,
We are drinking the night away.

In such moments of ecstasy,
Time has no meaning,
It passes without registering,
A single tick.

Blurred yet vivid,
Awake yet amongst dreams,
Inhibitions only for those,
Left bored with empty glasses.

In such nights as I drink,
To lose sense of time,
Dream with my eyes open,
And lose all sense of civil constraint,
I realise,

You had me,
As easily,
As my alcoholic indulgence.

Picture by Mae Mu (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)


Ripped apart,
Downstairs she stares.

Rocking chair.
Old electrics ring as
Enough kitchen content
The devalue of bloodshed.
Dish cloth impale.
Hands wrung,
Dirty juts and cigarette butts.
Yellow fronts. Bowed
Dirtying hair.
Tablecloth canvas
Flash rinse.
Liar’s twist.
Fun loving blags
In centres and ends.
Golden the kitchen sink.
Washing up dry
Where quick hits hit.
A bass line. Bouncing
Off it’s silver manuscript.
Laughs grin and grind
Like flutters,
The mopped floor
A camera lens.
Tomorrow cuts from today.
Folded menu
His love lies within.
Strong white and fizzing
Cutlery jangles mismatched.
Washing line somber

Yesterday’s rain.
A ride rattles by.

Picture by Adrien Olichon