tranQUILLity 🤍

Poems  are women. Widely liked at times, loved seldom listened to rarely understood and frequently silenced. Poems are women who survived  the feticide of audacious ideas and infanticide of  unsatisfactory drafts. Poems are women  with lowered eyes bejeweled by alliteration  veiled by metaphors palms henna-ed to mask blisters of truth. Poems are women never looked at but for aesthetic pleasure and never attempted to be understood. Poems  are women deified so long as it suits the facades of [those in] power admired so long as they  transgress no "modesty" Poems are women object of a hundred opinions never safe from [the critic's] "gaze" and entitled to no non-conforming opinion that shall not result in being silenced. Poems  are women quiet rebellion is the most they can do sadly, in the jungle where Aunt Jennifer's Tigers roar. Poems are women birthed from pain into a world of pain doomed to live  as reminders of "endurance"  of pain. Po...

Poetry is writing “she’s a glacier of gorgeousness” without cringing Poetry is allowing yourself to not rhyme all the time Poetry is backspace, backspace, backspace Poetry is telling yourself it’s okay Poetry is “did I write that?” [awestruck] and Poetry is “did I write that ?” [derogatory] Poetry is pausing at this point; and contemplating abandonment  Poetry is mundanity draped in fancy words concealing languor; Poetry is sentences a dorned by a lliterations Poetry is love, anger, pain, joy Poetry is cliche Poetry is carelessly tied strands of hair Poetry is bite marks on the tip of the pen Poetry is using the word ‘strands’ simply because of its visual imagery value (and hence exceeding word limit) Poetry is romanticising everything  Poetry is pausing again at this point; and contemplating deletion Poetry is learning to embrace the mess Poetry is falling in love with the process Poetry is, on many levels, “beautifulness” Poetry is forgetting a perfect rhyme in half a minu...

Read the prequel here : Before My Coffee Turns Cold I watched the sky part ways with the final rays of sunlight I noticed the golden hues quietly recede into twilight I heard the cacophony ebb away into the eerily tranquil night I discovered there was life after my coffee turned cold. I witnessed the world become more home, when I left my heart ajar I left pieces of myself in acts of kindness, and they travelled wide and afar I sat with the waves in silence till they washed over my hidden scars I tasted more of life, after my coffee turned cold. I lived, and in so doing, I found myself desiring to live more  I lost myself time and again, and found many surprises in store I cried till my eyes hurt, I laughed till my sides felt sore I pressed my cup to my cheeks, and it soothed, even after my coffee turned cold. I hurt, I screamed, I cried; I forgave, I walked away I healed, I learned to smile; I hurt again when life came in the way I wiped up the drops I’d spilled, and gathered the ...

Love is why I am prettier in the pictures with her Love is why I love the rain more when we get drenched together Love is why I delete texts; Love is why I send 16-minute voice notes. Love is why I developed courage to experiment with ice cream; and Love is why I love listening at 2AM to her Midnight Library-esque movie dream. Love is why I have reasons to be thankful at the end of every day Love is why I know the bliss of having someone for whom to pray Love is why I am able to plod through the quiet, and amidst the chaos Love is why I know the line “my soul is on tiptoes looking for yours”. Love is why I have no qualms about being my own first draft Love is why I now allow myself second drafts - at life and at my craft. Love is why the past and future hurt less in her presence; Love is why she knows I wish God took CBD’s writing lessons. Love is why I’ve ever cried for someone that is not me Love is why I’m reminded of her when I read Sally Rooney. Love is why I always exceed the wor...

Dear un-Home, I love you.  I dreamt of writing to you in eloquent, alliteration-heavy verse. Writing of smiles, of teardrops, of growth -  of sweet plot twists and of not-so-sweet firsts. But words seemed to know better, much to my initial dismay - they refused to lend themselves to what I yearned to say. Sometimes, I wondered where to begin sometimes, the lines just wouldn’t rhyme. So I gave up. Because I guess, just like us, our story was meant to grow at its own time. I wanted this to be a confession of love - the kind they call “enthralling”, “poetic finesse”. But… ours was never an aesthetic story, was it? Rather, a quiet, beautiful mess… So I shall resist the temptation to drape my words in fancy embellishments I shall write, in the language of our love which to the world, may make little sense. I shall disregard conventions of ‘beginning - middle - end’ and embrace shabby, fragmented lines. I shall leave some thoughts to the language of silence and hope our love still ...