Day and night, they pass.
Each as grisly as the last
Everything's dirty, everything's right there
Everything's always been somewhere

Gaze now, at the soles of your feet
The dirt is their prize, from the illusion's defeat
Yet, as you wash it all off, you're told you're pure
You escape the beauty of the mud's allure

Sit on the grass, freshly cut
Feel the cool dirt, and your eyes, let them shut
This feeds all you see and all you will
Feel it, love it, and bask in this newfound bliss, beautifully still

Love all you see, in this dirt
All that
Creeps and crawls
and weeps and bawls
and cheeps and calls 
(for love, as they know can only hurt)

Wind in your hair is not of a poem or book
It keeps in check all that life has left shook

For love, we tie stones round our finger
Should that gaze forget to linger

We are one with the earth and shall be bound here till the end of time
On here, we have loved, lost, and lived, blessed in an unending crime



Like everyone else

It's so quiet 
in My head
There's so much I could be
There's so much I could do

But, is it really worth it?
Yeah, sure, work hard for tomorrow
But, when is tomorrow, 
that unreachable dystopia with an eternal dawn?

It nibbles and nibbles 
through the vastness of every thought
every day
every night
until there isn't a tomorrow

I'm not the first,
won't Be the last
A voice in the choir
that transcends time

It's always the same
Hate the cycle
Be a part of it anyway

Yeah, that's me
That's you
That's everyone

You're not special
But then
Who is?




I'm not sure anymore, 
but I just might be.
I love being vague,
it creates so many loose ends

I'm a pretentious prick,
yeah, sure, but I own it,
like no one else would,
at the cost of real friends.

I see eyes gloss over
every time I open my mouth.
I know I'm not really the best
to capture the imagination

You see, it's just that..........

The words, they tumble out
No pause, not giving my brain
a chance to glance at all 
the havoc they could wreak

I need to talk,
it's an urge,
an addiction
and I'm hooked 

I love it, 
I relish it, 
with every breath, 
with every flourish,
with every shout,
with every overtly 
exaggerated action, 

I see smiles,I hear laughter,
sweet as the tinkling of wind-chimes
at me, or with me, I could not care less.

Just a quick flash of a smile, 
and I'm content.
It's a beautiful sight.

On Panic

It’s the eve of my finals. I’m freaking out about my economics paper, but subconsciously even more so, about the english literature paper that shall follow it all too soon.

It’s Taylor Swift time; 2:00 a.m. , I mean. I’m on the phone with my girlfriend type thing, failing to stifle yawns as I read out anti-autocratic poetry to her. My brain keeps telling me to study, but, it also coaxes and lulls me into a state of such blissful rest, as i feel my eyes drooping shut.

And, then: BAM!  No more sleep. Why? Well, the two C’s: Coffee and Conscience

I really shouldn’t be making excuses to myself for my own idiocy. It’s always the same. I get into the year with all these dreams of finally reaching my potential, and it takes all of two days for the lethargy to  take me by the hand and lead me into that void of the sheer numbness of conscience  that allows me to do nothing, until it’s too fucking late. Then I vow to do better , and again, the cycle repeats, and goes on and on and and on AND FRIKKIN ON.

Exercise? Lol. Might as well swallow cholesterol whole, for all the physiological good I could’ve done but have conveniently ignored

It’s so typical of me, this whole thing. Wallowing in self pity about how nothing ever happens, and then doing nothing about it.My ego is my biggest failing, with the, “I’m better than this”attitude completely consuming me

I have dreams! I have goals! and they’re perfectly achievable, within the classrooms that cause a psychosomatic claustrophobia with me, if I could only kick myself into seeing clearly

They gave me the reigns, and I let them go, and now it might be too late to grab them again

I’m so fucked

The Cycle

I have this theory. Well, it’s not my theory, so I guess it’s more of a belief: Karma. What goes around comes around. The universe, as we know it in a spiritual sense, as a reality of a never ending cyclic dynamism, somehow, just appeals to me conceptually.

Now, I’m not one of those who believes in something not proven by science and common sense (But I can’t say there’s anything wrong with that), but, for most of us, spiritual rituals and beliefs are more coping mechanisms than anything else, and in a world that floods your consciousness and your conscience with its constantly changing ambiguity of right and wrong, it is a welcome necessity.

Allow me to explain my interpretation of Karma, with the full knowledge that I may have bypassed the concept and/or its intention entirely:

Think about your ambitions, and keep them as the primary focus of your mind. Imagine yourself after the achievement of those ambitions and goals. Content, happy, relieved etc are the words that one may associate with that feeling. So, logically, what you chase is not a salary, a job, a person, a lifestyle or whatever else your magical imagination can dream of; You chase happiness and all that weight off your chest

Karma, to me, plays a big part in this. What is Karma, though? It is a circle, a loop, a reflective surface; What you give it shall be given back to you in its due course. It may kick into gear faster than a newly acquired motorcycle, or take a decade or a lifetime to show itself, but it stays.

A physical analogy would be the Law of Conservation of Energy: Energy can be neither created nor destroyed, and in the same way, what you do, enters this cycle, and comes back to you in due time.

So, to connect what I’ve just written, if it is happiness and success of whatever order that you wish for yourself(Which you do, ultimately), send happiness and good vibes into this cycle and put your back into it. Do what you do with a smile, and if you can’t, then you’re not doing the right thing. This also helps to find the distinction between what you want to do and what you think you want to do.

Smile at everyone, even if they don’t smile back(not in a psychotic manner, though, as I am given to understand that it can be unsettling), it can make a huge difference, because you’ll get those back when you need them.

There’s always a story to tell, tell it right, you owe it that much.




Sentiment is something I choose to devote a lot of time and energy to. I can’t throw away those Dr. Suess books, my Tintin and Asterix comics and never the Harry Potter series. I write letters, in enebelopes, and I actually post them, I will never not save chats on Snapchat, and I don’t think I could ever not screenshot even the most random snaps people send me, because everything is so fickle, you always need something to look back to. 

That’s all very nice to think about, but what about all those times you just can’t document? That cute guy who smiled at me as I brushed past him today in school, my first kiss, the way my friend’s eyes light up when she hears that one song? 

There’s an interesting duality to it, however. The Snapchat/Instagram sensation makes a memory a fleeting glance and a warm fuzzy feeling for a second, and then double tap, as life returns to normal, but then there’s a juxtaposition to the simple fact that capturing memories is not a matter of privilege, means, or least of all talent, anymore. It’s one tap away.

Tap tap


Tap tap 




Pianos in Lobbies


I’m in a hotel lobby. No, not really. I’m in the reception area of a lodge up in the hills of the lake district of England, with about ten rooms, at best. This place is out of a book. It’s made of stone, not cement, it’s got real fireplaces in a real library with real books with real old British people reading them, with their walking sticks and cocoa by their sides. This isn’t a tourist place, and that’s why we’re here. Ten year old me is overjoyed to be in a place where characters from the secret seven or famous five might go. (Yes, Enid Blyton ruled my fantasies, back then, and ventures into them from time to time even today)


I walk into a 50-foot high lobby of marble and bright lights and suits in a building made of gray cement and steel and glass that could be anywhere in the world. The air conditioning calls for the jacket that I should have carried, knowing that places like this don’t change the temperature of the air conditioning, even in a chilly November, like this one. I draw a cold breath and regain my composure. I hate places with no character


I walk into a toasty room (with a fireplace, which I am promptly told to keep away from, for the sake of safety) I bounce around on the much too comfortable bed, with all its pillows and duvets, then run to the window, and watch the rain fill the Ullswater lake, against a backdrop of a sky greyer than a ghost and the greenest hills that just refuse to end. I don’t know it at the time, but that view is one of the few that stays as a snapshot in my mind, and mesmerizes me, even as I write this, proving that you don’t need cameras or phone, just your eyes.


I check my phone to see if I’ve received anything more as a reflexive action than an actual check, knowing full well that if something had come, I’d have felt it buzz in my pocket. I fiddle with my collared T-shirt, simultaneously marveling and laughing at the vanity that had possessed me to both buy and wear it. I feel my phone buzz, my heart jumps, as I take the millisecond to whip it out of my pocket and look at it, registering that 50 people have appreciated my pretentiousness on Instagram. I put my phone back and start looking around, hoping, praying, even.


We walk down the wooden stairs with actual wood banisters to the lobby that couldn’t be more than ten feet high. I like it. It’s warm, cozy and homely. The manager/owner/waiter/receptionist, not older than sixty, with salt and pepper hair, and looking all the world like a father who’s just dropped his daughter to college, smiles at me, warmly and ruffles my hair.  I give him my best boyish grin, as walks away, still smiling. My eyes come to rest on something between a statue of a dog and a fern. It looks vaguely familiar, as I start walking towards it. I break into a run as I realize that it’s a piano.


I walk around all three floors of the lobby, getting looks ranging from puzzled to suspicious from guards, cleaning ladies, waiters, receptionists, and guests. I look with a hope, on which clings my faith in the modern world, in humanity and in the universe at large. I don’t find it. After my third trip across the lobby, I stop and just sit on the gleaming marble floor, under the bright, white lights, with bellhops, residents of the hotel, and businesspeople walking past me, looking at me like I’m stupid. I bury my face in hand covered by the ends of sleeves of the jacket I recovered from our car in the parking lot. I take a deep breath. Would it kill the world’s most posh hotel chain to have a piano in the lobby? The temptation to walk to the reception to tell them that the Marriott has a piano in the lobby, comes, stays for a dangerously long second and goes. I take a deep breath, put on the mask of a scowl for my parents, and rejoin them at dinner in a restaurant that tries to be Michelin star in a neighborhood that can’t afford Michelin tires


I play the piano endlessly. I can’t stop. I haven’t felt one for two weeks and didn’t realize how much I missed it. I go to tea, smiling. The nice lady with freckles and beautiful blonde hair, who couldn’t be more than twenty years old, puts extra marshmallows in my hot chocolate and asks if I’d like some biscuits to go with that in a beautiful North English accent that I never thought I’d hear outside a movie. We eat dinner, and my father asks for the bill. He doesn’t see the bill for my meal and asks the manager/owner/waiter/receptionist if there’s been a mistake. “No”, he says, with a smile,”This young man was kind enough to entertain us with his tunes, we thought we owed him a  meal for that”