Can’t Sleep

My eyes have lost their sense of humour,

And my tongue has become loose,

My dry lips don’t need the moisture,

And my heart needs a rest too.

This conundrum of a sleeping pattern,

Has kept me up at nights.

And this vigilant insomnia,

Has me dreaming when the cock crows thrice.

I want to feel normalcy,

But there is none.

When will the sandman make his visit?

In a day, a week, or a month?


That feeling that incurrs a heat wave

Across the face

Across the weight

Of my humiliated body

Hurts me in so many emotional ways.


Your presense can soothe me 

Like an exhaling breath of pent up energy,

Like feeling the stray drops of a tumultuous river

Like the dew drops that fall from one leaf to another,

Like hearing the showers that cool down Gaia

Like climbing onto my bunk bed, one step higher and higher.


Music was meant to be remembered,

To be shared,

To be loved,

And it’s creator decorated with adoration.

A man who can influence the masses,

Like the Pied Piper,

But who’s own death came as a surprise,

And led to a shockwave of devastation.

The masses weep for your untimely death,

As do I.

You and your art will be remembered

Longer than your forever.


Show your love with love,

Replace it not with gifts or money,

Like gold, it is most precious in it’s unadulterated form.


Sweet nectar drips down from between your lips,

And I watch as you crumble to your most primitive state,

An animal beneath all that mud;

From my body,

You pull apart the work of a hundred silk worms,

And I let it fall to the ground,

Like all my inhibitions.

I let myself read your body,

It’s beautiful uncomplicated language.


What happens to a tree whose thirst is not met?

Its soul meets the heavens.

That’s why I want to be a cactus.

I still will always need the water of love and validation,

But I am a survivor,

So deplete me of the river you so hungrily crave,

And watch me live on a drop.


Asifa Bano of Kathua in Jammu was gangraped and murdered. Her body was found 7 days later after she was lost. Her body was found in a forest. She was a muslim minority stuck in hindu dominated lands. Asifa’s father was not allowed to bury her body in the said lands and has evacuated for the fear of further attacks.


The boys in my class want to become men

They want to grow some hair on their chest

And feel the power of great men

Like a rite of passage, they drink and they smoke

And much to my chagrin

They glorify these vices.


Some nights I stay up to keep company to my thoughts

Those toxic things feel lonely when ignored for too long

Why does knowing one’s innermost thoughts feels like thieving from oneself?

Introspection seems to synthesize grief 

Self realization makes me understand how insignificant I am in this large world 

But I wait for my time

My time where all things end

My grief 

My life

My trance transcend.


I don’t think I matter much to you
So I try to not matter to you
But it’s really hard to make you not matter to me
But that is a whole other matter

Why don’t we speak anymore?

I always imagine a scenario where you ask me why we don’t speak anymore,

And I imagine my reply,

Replaying it over and over again,

Procrastinating on the words that are supposed to come out of my mouth,

“Why should I exist in your world, 

When you don’t want me in it?”