To the woman who let me make her a portrait.

When I attempt to create you on my sketchbook,

The rough tips of my soft pencils trying to somehow do justice to you-

Your body,

My fingers, coated with pencil dust,

With such tenderness, 

When they stroke your jaw,

 Evening out the coarse stubble the harsh pencils have left on it, 

To have the light glide along it just like it does in flesh- 

Like water does on your body after a long day at work. 

That is when I fall for you.
When I part your lips, with a sharp stroke of my pencil,

Leaving you moaning for me,

Peach and plump and perfect,

That is when I fall for you.
When I trace your eyebrows, 

Arched the way your back arches When you wake up on a Sunny Sunday,

When I brush your eyelashes,  Your eyelids laced with them,

The way your eyes are laced with ecstasy

That is when I fall for you.
When I grace my pencil through the beautiful black mess of your hair,

Gently tousling it with my fingers,

That is when I fall for you.
When I graze my fingers along your faultless neck, 

Oh the way it gives way to your  bosom, your collar bones, your shoulder blades,

That is when I fall for you.
When you let me make love to you,

Without touching you,

When I am unable to trap your allure Within the confines of the pale paper,

When your smile always 

Succeeds to be more calming 

Than what I am capable of creating, 

When your eyes always begin to play a different story than what I make them play on paper,

That is when I fall for you.


Acceptance and sympathy

Rare is a man
That knows the grey
Between acceptance and sympathy.
That knows both are not
The same shade of black.

Rare is a man
That doesn’t cry for acceptance,
Because he knows
He will be rewarded with sympathy
If he does.

Rare is a man that
Knows acceptance is equality,
Sympathy is not.

Rare is a man that
Accepts for acceptance,
And sympathises with
What he cannot accept
For he knows not how to hate
Things he can’t accept .

Because rare is a man
That understands that
Love is acceptance,
Sympathy is sympathy.

Who’s the prettiest of them all ?

“Mirror mirror on the wall,

Who’s the prettiest of them all?”

The mirror wonders who indeed

Is the prettiest of them all.

“A nice poser” he says,

“To which I have an answer”

He shows the one who asks the question

The face of the prettiest of them all.

We’ve known the answer for ages,

And yet we ask for it today.

And still wonder why exactly 

The mirror shows our face each day.


When my ship hit the iceberg,
All was lain astray.
All my possessions,
All my sense,
As I fell into the cold black waters
-Eyes closed, body limp.

Had I known what Nature
Had in store for me,
I would have sunk prepared.
The salty waves cradled me
Up and down, singing me a lullaby,
And carried me far away from wreckage.

They left me on the sands of this island
The sand was velvety and white,
Not like the coarse,
Rough and irritating sand
That you and me see everytime..
Not the sand that gets everywhere.

Now I would call it Ogygia,
For it was so much like it..
The fabled island, where lonely
Doe eyed Calypso reaped the sins of her father,
Fell for each she healed,
Fell for each that wouldn’t fall for her.

This Ogygia was no different,
But for the fact that Calypso was nowhere.
What healed me was the island.
It replenished my strength,
Gave me back my health.
I had been engulfed in the salt water
For far too long …
It took time to recover,
But recover, I did.

The turquoise ocean, the turquoise sky,
The velvet sands, and the yellow tulips
The green palms, and my warm red blood
The wooden cottage with all those books,
The four poster feather bed with red curtains,
And the beautiful black piano..
It was spring everyday, and winter never came..

I was soaking it all in,
With the newly returned light in my black eyes,
When I started recalling the place where I needed to be.
But Ogygia was better than my destination ..
It’s tranquility entranced me.

My instinct insisted I leave at once,
And all know that instinct knows best..
I couldn’t find my will to leave..
The thought of it made me giddy.
That was when I realized-
‘It’s a trap!’
The island stole whatever will
The inhabitor had to return to the place
Where he belonged..
I would not fall into this trap.

I understand now, why
Ogygia was inhabited by
None other than one.
Each washes over it’s shores,
Each is healed,
And each leaves,
As an answer to his instinct,
As each has promises to keep,
And miles to go before he sleeps,
Miles to go before he sleeps.

Carry on

Carry on ,carry on

There is no time to 

Walk away.

Carry on, please carry on, 

Your heart doesn’t have much

Rythm anyway..

Your happy smiles,

Your prettiest masks,

Do less to hide 

The monotony inside,

Your snapchat stories

And instagrams

Make great evidences

That you lied.

Well carry on,

I say, carry on,

Cause there’s not much

You could do ’bout it,

Unless you forget

Who you want to be

And begin to remember

Who you are.

Miss Jane, with love

I met her in the dingy lane,

Olive skin and crumpled skirt,

Lopsided horn-rimmed glasses,

Eyes you can’t det’mine the color of.

She had an air about herself,

That filled you up with somnolence,

With a calm so unmatchable,

And immense pleasure so intense.

Aunt Mary had a wrinkled face,

Her smile could take you to places,

Places that were far and beyond,

Up the skies and under the hills.

Her lullabies were pure love and,

Her lap, a haven for lost souls,

Warm embrace, a fancy well- fulfilled,

Dry lips, an elixir of life.

Her beautiful eyes slowed time down,

Made you wonder ’bout other worlds,

Her face made you forget your pain,

And all sorrow in recent past.

Mary Jane, a lovely woman,

Her essence was so pure and clear,

She stays inside those dingy lanes,

A reason so many live for.