No, It’s not a rant — Out there, there are awesome people doing awesome things. But I, I suck at awesome! Great ideas bombard my head all the time. But, I have neither the means nor the invention to give them fruition. All around me, I see monumental stuff happening. How I wish I could build one…

A few words about having a life’s block — Pointless strolling takes up the greater part of my existence, Too afraid to pick a path, Even for my morning walk. Dozens of shallow relationships, veiled by anonymity, Afraid of commitment, Like they could gobble me up. Never gonna do anything. Thousands of excuses for why I cannot, Not a single one…

A poem — You reply to my smiles with a nod, To my words with a smile, To my letters with a pat on the back, And, I pine for more from you, for more of you, Thinking that your eyes look through me, That I don’t exist for you. I cry myself to sleep, And then I'm at peace. But, What if you start responding to my love, Start to understand my feelings, Start warming up to me? Could I withstand that force, Could I bear the love, Could my tiny heart stand this new battle?

A poem on her memory — My room smelled of your perfume, My thoughts flooded with the memory of you. The two just as fragrant and alluring, Bringing a smile upon my face. Beautiful in every which way, You buoy my sinking soul with your grin. As I sit here, struggling to yank the words out of my in-spate heart, You come by with your gentle giggle, easing the rope out of my hands and the words out of their shell.

A small poem on being in love with her — Take my hand, Let’s intertwine our fingers. Let me give you a twirl, Then fall into my arms. Shine light upon my dark heart with your smile. Let me know that it will be okay. I’m yours, be mine in the pacific togetherness that trust and love catalyse. Let me hold you while I hold onto you. Let us exist in each other’s existence, outside of the world’s worlds.

A few words on on what it meant to me — But how can a writer write when there’s nothing to write from and no one to write to? You, my greatest muse, are dead to me. You lit the spark, stoked the fire, and blew on it till it erupted. Now, you are the cold breeze that puts it out. …

50-word Microfiction — Every day I’d go to the park, sit on the bench, and watch, as little children played with each other, and sang like the world has no worries for them, and I would be transported back to my childhood. That’s all I had asked for: a time machine that worked.

A few words on how they beckon to me — The lost pages of my diary beckon to me. Another sad poem, a practical prose. All words too deep to be felt by any heart, Only the paper being able to bear the brunt of my ‘heart’s attacks’. Each word as candid and as contentious as the next. The lost…

A Haiku — Listless afternoons, Empty beers for company. Nights that never end.