So-called poetry

Burn It Down

Did you just punch me?

Don’t you know I have been numb for long?

How can something that is already dead ever die?


Here is a solution

Take that carving knife and gut me alive

And spray the walls with my blood


Does that quench your thirst?

Is revenge as sweet as it is made out to be?

But you are not after revenge, are you?

You just want to see me suffer


Don’t you know I already am?

The noose you have tied around my neck

Is not tighter than the stranglehold of your demands

Don’t you know for every ounce of pain you feel,

I suffer twice as much?

That your lack of trust is worse

Than any humiliation you can throw at me?


They say that the phoenix rose from its ashes

Burn me then!

Burn me and burn my memories

The good and the bad

Burn my flesh

Burn my soul

Burn that bond that cannot be severed

Burn the world

Burn the society

Burn the castles and let everyone suffer


Perhaps after then

When the screaming stops

And there is nothing but ashes

We will rise again

So-called poetry


Two streets run in parallel
Criss-crossing streets
Almost touching 
Yet staying apart

Two creations extend forever
Heavens reaching down
Earth up
Yet remain distant

Two lives breathe in unison
Souls mingling deep
Hopeless love
Yet never unite

Do parallel streets ever cross?
Does the horizon ever materialise?
Do star-crossed lovers ever unite?

They do not and they cannot
For they are asymptotes
Curves that never meet
Till infinity and beyond

But has anyone seen infinity?

So-called poetry


Heartless, they called me
Soulless being my fame
Humour was my friend
When grief became shame

Masks adorned my face
Seemed like a machine
No life and no death
Buried in between

Prayed for an escape
From the hurt and guilt
Wished someone came, and
Had my heart rebuilt

Then you came along
Like that star up north
Guiding my lost faith
Pulling it henceforth

And just like that star
Drives darkness away
You gave me the light
To search the right way

Through the thickets of
The forest of fate
Through the mazes of
Prejudice and hate

And emerge at the
Precipice at which
Pain ends and bliss starts
And life appears rich

For when these eyes close
One image haunts most
Anklet, rose, and a
Smile brighter than those

Because you are my
Soulmate; my one love;
‘Tis you that I see
When stars fade above

So-called poetry


They said I had died 
At four past midnight
They said I had tried
To survive; to fight

‘Twas the head you see
That truly killed me
Caution and safety 
Those could not save me

Sometimes I wonder
If ’twas a blunder

Dreams torn asunder
When I went under

But with all this strife
That cuts hearts like knife
And pain that is rife
How good is a life?

So I lie in peace
In white of one piece
Troubles come to cease
Death is sweet release


So-called poetry


So, the other day I bought a journal. It’s a Pierre Cardin one, with a green leather-like material on its cover. The decision to buy was impulsive, with no rational thought whatsoever. It cost me approximately 400 rupees.

Now if you are anything like my friends, you will ask me the same question they did, “Dude, you spent 20 times more money on a notebook because it looked pretty on the outside and had a fancy name engraved on it?”

Normally, I would retort that it’s called a “journal” and not a “notebook,” you simpleton! But I won’t, because I would be lying. Beneath the veneer of sophistication, lies regular old paper with regular old lines. So who are we kidding? It’s a notebook as in notebooks usually are in general terms of speaking. Then the question arose: what do I do with this thing so as to make it seem like a worthwhile investment to my friends.

*Ting* Write nonsensically abstract poems, of course. Of course. I will then say this is where I keep my art. No one questions art. They will think, “Oh, I don’t have a clue what he is talking about, but I’m sure it’s something that transcends my levels of comprehension. And it’s great that he keeps something so beautiful to record his creativity.”

With that crooked thought in mind, I made the first entry into my “journal.” Here you go:

Do not leave me marooned 
Out on this lonely isle. 
No one to tend my earthly wound
No one to share my painful smile 

A place it is for fulfilled lives
A place it is for happy souls 
But the essence on which my being survives 
Cannot be nurtured by its worldly goals 

Can’t you take me there, where
Time stops and prayers pass?
Past the need for things to repair
Past lands beyond the Looking Glass

Where neither hope nor despair live
Where tranquillity and peace lie
For I cannot find the will to forgive
That which made you immortal, 
and left me to die. 

And just so you know how regular the paper looks, here is a click:
So-called poetry

Acrostic poem

So this weird thing happened. You might know Maria from the blog, randomlyabstract. If you don’t, then do visit her blog. She is one of the best writers I have come across. Really gifted. Her poems are just wow.

The other day she posted an acrostic poem Truly Yours

As usual, I was up to no good, and ended up spamming her comments section with a weird acrostic poem kind of contraption of my own. Rather than telling me off, she gracefully suggested that I should try to write an acrostic in Urdu. As my Urdu knowledge is practically nada, I said that I might try to write one in Hindi, to which she agreed. So, here it is:

Tujhe yeh kasam di thi maine
Aisi ek kavita likhoonga 
Koi doosri bhasha mein nahi 
Hindi ke shabdon mein rachoonga
Aisi kavita jo kar de madhosh
Labon pe jab bhi kisi ke aaye 
Lahoo se bhi ujjwal jiska rang ho 
Urdu jaisi dhwani tarang ho, aur   
‘Salim’ ki rooh hamesha jiske sang ho

Now, I know what you must be thinking. Haha, what a moron! I know, I am one. So, after all that bravado, I actually did try to write one poem that will supposedly leave you “madhosh.” Needless to say, it turned out be something akin to those you find written on those paper slips the local channawala gives you #epicfail. Here it is:

Na koi khushi hai
Aur na hai koi gham
Jeene ki himmat nahi
Na marne ka hai dum
Kaisi uljhan hai yeh
Bataa duniyawale
Nafrat toh bahut ki,
Pyar kabhi na hua kam

P.S. These are my first Hindi poems ever. So be gentle 😀

So-called poetry


They thought I was a writer 
They thought I was a poet
But then they found out
I couldn’t tell a song from a sonnet

They thought I was an artist 
They thought I could paint
But then they found out 
Neither to a mural nor miniature was I acquaint

They thought I played cricket 
They thought I was a spinner
But then they found out
The team in which I played was never a winner

Finally they said, “You’re an engineer”
When they gazed upon the reflection, that
I am the master of the none
I am the captain of the zilch

P.S. Apologies to William Ernest Henley. Please don’t haunt me.