The beauty embodies
attired in tranquility 
fluttering gracefully

in the winds of ecstasy     

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BFFs

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Flipping the pages of my old crumbled notebook I found those scrawny jokers embellishing my crabbed hand resurrecting old memories in my mind. We were best friends; perhaps born 'besties' "Un-goggled" nerds shouting out answers From the back bench; pushed to the corner By a fatso, engulfing two third of the area -a loner. We were the princesses of our imaginary world Where we had the perfect things and were the prettiest girls. In the real world, we'd just sit whispering,with narrowed eyes and a frown. Plotting to push our neighbour down. Piles of grave secrets stuffed in our brain We grew up, but the weirdness never waned. It was the age when our brain confided in double meaning And twenty four seven we fantasized about our prince charming. We made new friends and never did we realize that we were ending up in the opposite shores Petty fights and mistakes and misunderstandings Weakened us, piercing our hearts like s...
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And I fell

People talked, taunted and trashed until they spaded into my soul Thrust their mouths upon my ears and fed on my repressed fears.   They submerged me in their hollow words And I came out gasping; All frail and feeble with a racing mind, unstable.   My life was sorely punctured - with  countless, fathomless holes; All that seeped through was muck, keeping me bound to the ruck.   I was pushed ahead, but there was no ground beneath. And I fell and I failed Hit the rock bottom, my arms flailed.  
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What am I writing for?

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  I find my writings buried deep; beneath millions of verses- phrased by people unknown; leaving me crumpled and torn.   I stare at those neglected words as my will burns down to ashes; into the dirt, my thoughts downpour; And I ask myself, 'What am I writing for?'   Is it for a chunk of money or fame?  For a name or to be best in the game? With the 'neither and nors' tied in loose knots, I stumble upon my own thoughts. When the ink stains the flawless white sheet Amidst the stacks of strokes and curves, I discover That my writings is all me; wild, natural and raw And to be myself,  the words must flow.          
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