Most Nights We are Alone

Most nights we are alone,

Trying to form a shape,

Wrecking with the pain of a bleeding heart,

In desperation to flatten the lump formed in the throat,

Trying to keep it as calm as possible

Not to wake our partners beside us.

Most nights we are alone,

Clenching onto pillows,

Playing loud music,

Pretending sleep,

While we writhe in pain.

Most nights we are alone,

Thinking of faces that promised company,

Faces of people we assumed would hug us,

Hands that we thought would caress us,

And talks that we registered would soothe us.

Most nights we are alone,

Peeling off our gender,

Searching for an identity,

Making sense of our essence,

Organizing our anger,

Revolting against the structure,

Living past the breaking point,

Storming a mysterious body.

Most nights we are alone,

Cursing the dreams we believed,

Blaming the instincts that spurred on dubious actions,

Marking the words we spat out without tasting and

Lines we crossed, forgetting our position in the 'system'.

Most nights we are alone,

Unable to find a road,

To be on a track to run through,

To walk at a time that can heal us,

To solve the puzzle that eats us.

Most nights we are alone,

Forgetting we were born alone,

We have always been alone,

And we will all die alone.

A. C

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Shuli’s Love

Shuli washed her hair twice that day. One for her love to cleanse all impurities of reality and one for herself. She took a nap twice that day. One for love that took her melatonin, And another to forget. Shuli laughed twice that day. One on behalf of her tainted Love, And another on her botched brain cells. She cried a quarter that day. Half a quarter filled with anger, and the other half with shame. She danced twice that day, One for lost time on love, And another for her love for dance. Shuli wrote twice that day, One for her heart and Other for her brain. She gave two hugs that day, One for her wet pillow And another for herself. Shuli played hostess twice that day, One for her pain and the last for her sanity.

Little Poem

My procrastination ends here, While the urge to write chokes my throat, My hands get paralysed as in a trance, I find excuses to write a little poem, I make up a lonely man, a distressed woman, a lovers’ quarrel, an unrequited love, But they are reluctant to play the part, Maybe i should give them a raise, Or throw a party at midnight, Maybe a few drinks might work, Only if they don’t puke. I can expect a little vandalism, Some damage to the property and a mini scandal, Possibly out of rage. But at the end when I bring my weapons, Sometimes they get scared and back off, Some may never come back, Others find it funny and mock at me, And opportunists, seeing my desperation, Attacks me with manipulation. And all these while, my three panic attacks talk to me in a different language, I try to write a little poem With a racing heart and flowing eyes, I write my little poem, tortured and broken, I end my little poem, Like a mighty warrior, Who had a pyrrhic victory.

Madeline’s Mirror

Madeline’s mirror told her she’s fat, It appalled at her shapeless dress, Covering a chunk of flesh. She looked at her broad shoulders And big breasts, which reminded her of a pile of clothes that no longer fits her. But Madeline smiled and applied her eyeliner effortlessly. Her mirror sneered at her chafing thighs kissing each other when she moves. Madeline’s mirror found her plush lips contradicting the pair of flesh on either side of it. It spotted the two chins fighting for space like contestants in the combat zone. Madeline admired her freckleless skin, and applied her favourite lipstick. The mirror reflected her flabby arms complementing her saggy belly. Madeline moved closer to her mirror, which still in oblivion, started to produce sympathetic smiles at her legs. It mirrored how her legs carry all the weight, hiding under her flowy dress. Appreciating her silky hair and perfectly manicured...

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