I remember some time ago, chasing many dreams. Venturing out into battles, with whatever little I had. The bloke was hungry. He had seen blood dripping out of so many mouths, that he wanted to see how it felt like. There was an insatiable pep
Even as the Covidian epoch perishes, and we slither into another elusive timeline, it’s hard not to introspect our actions. Goes without saying, it makes us apprehensive of the things that lay in store for us. What we as humans can possibly do is hope.
Receding life,Night time,Go back to the darkWhere you came from.Put on the lightsFor you can’t seeYour murky alleyOf crimesYou commitEvery day –Deeds you didOn a wild hunch,Just so you could haveYour morning brunchOver a graveyard of corpses.Land of the faunaIs defeated,Trampled down,By human greed.Your home
माँ तुम ना हो तो,हर शब्द है चिंघाड़,हर जिद्द है नखरा,हर कदम पर चोट,मरहम दे आँसू,हर बच्चा कंधाऔर जुबां बंदूक | हर गाना है तानाजो चुभता रोज़ाना,हर बात है बतंगड़,हर लफ्ज़ है कराहना,हर काम है पर्वत,हर लक्ष्य है चोटिल | असीम अँधेरा,ढूंढू तुझे हर दिनहै
When you are not around,I turn into a wereworker. I pounce on the cabinetAnd up on the files,Romp on the keyboardAnd jump on the tiles. I chew away the keys,When I look for a cloud,And drench in the rainOf my miserable crowd. Graze on the
Throw me into the worldTo notice little things,From the throbbing of my heartWhen I go silent with the wind. To the nooks that hideCobwebs in my room,And the walk that drivesMy legs out of the gloom. While the moon seeksRespite from the clouds,The sun rides
The Kite Runner carries one hell of a story that speaks volumes of remorse, deeply rooted in sands of time. It rips you apart beyond reparation. You can’t empathize enough with the memories of a little boy scarred for life. The book is more of
Rent me a place in your childhood,I wish to witness your lifeTake form as you growOld as you are now,And I want to hold you tightAfter every little fightYou had with lifeTrying to figure outWhy some things never panned outWhen they worked out in your
Sometimes I am scared of what I might become. What if I forget my modus operandi. Can an artist forget his trait? I started off to be a writer, now an array of vocations caper about on my dashboard. The inclination towards direction affects my
Power is control –A shard of mythThat you think you own,But you are a marionetteDangling at fate’s behest.You think you moved?You are pushed.You think you are quiet?You have been silenced.Think you have spoken?You have been forced to scream –A painful bellow,You have been marked yellowFor