Things turn around
and your face looks
like a stranger’s
and no,
I cannot fathom that the
words slipping off your
tongue are yours.
And the way your
mouth curls into
a smile, a phantom
of what it used to be.
But things turn around
and people grow old
and older, until
we are nothing but
mutual friends,
being introduced to
ourselves in
the mirror,
once again.




we cannot succumb,
we cannot give in.
get up and do
what you’re meant
to be doing.
hate will keep
brewing like
an unwanted
storm in the
bones of those
those untouched
by humanity.
but if your heart
aches and your
heart beats,
get up and do
what you’re meant
to be doing
be a lover.
and choose kindness,
choose compassion.
think of those
without whose
smile you wouldn’t
make it here
and be that smile
for everyone
and no matter
don’t be an accomplice,
or fall prey
to the hands of hate.
choose love,

A poet.


I carry whole worlds
inside of me.
They echo and rattle
my bones and brew
in me like a potion
only I’ll ever know
till I pick up a pen
and let the magic
that’s singing
and humming
spill out in whirls
and rhymes till
I’m dried out
and you know
the taste.
Till new worlds
and new words
beckon me to
play scrabble again.

Happy World Poetry Day!

False Advertising

Oh, January.
I waited and waited
For you because
New year, new me
But you’re false advertising.
You’re an average product
In fancy packaging.
Because the instructions
Read a good night’s sleep
On the 31st means
Come morning,
A guaranteed twist
Of fate and destiny.
All my bad habits gone,
Good ones followed dutifully.
Yet mid January,
Here I am
The same old me.



from the bottom up

ground to the hilt

cemented with

every person I’ve

ever been

painted in blues

and greens and yellows

and pinks

from my dawns and

dusks and twilights

and even my darkest nights

a garden in the front

an evergreen tree

right where my

heart lies

skin like unbreakable

glass stuck to bones

made with words

and letters

thought and spoken

and heard and borrowed

front door where

my lips would be

only sweet things

leaving the building

ground to the hilt

photo frames

where I scraped my knees

french windows

eyes to see

reinventing to become

a safe haven

a temple

just for me.



i’ll tell you what it’s like to be a human.
it’s feeling so much happiness that
every atom in you soaks it up.
it’s laughing giddily,
having no sense of reality,
sitting around in a dim lit room
with your loved ones by your side
and your dreams and ambitions
clutched under your arm
and feeling so deeply loved
and golden that you feel invincible,
like nothing is impossible and
if someone asks you to skydive
at that very moment,
you’d fling yourself from a helicopter,
with not a single worry,
with no care, no guard, no shame,
knowing you’ll make it.
because despite how utterly horrible
you might feel on some days,
one day you’ll be grown enough
to know it’ll pass.
know your parachute will lift you.
because despite all of it
all that you’ve gone through,
you get to have this;
the pure sense of being alive.
that unadulterated feeling of
a beating heart and working lungs
and breathing all the happiness in.
that’s what it’s like to be human.
to thrive and revel.
to laugh till you can’t breathe.
to let go and just be.

A poem.


A word, a phrase,

 A sigh, a face.

It begins.
An immaculate voice,
But a blurring pace.
It comes to you.
Taps on the screen,
Or curls on the paper.
It comes to life.
Rushing, rushing, rushing,
It pours out.
It shapes itself.
A breath stuck in your throat,
Then a huge huff of relief.
It’s real.
He reads it, she reads it.
It makes its way where it’s supposed to be.
It’s made it.
A word, a phrase,
A sigh, a face.
Sometimes it never goes off.
No voice, no pace,
No hitting of waves.
Sometimes you’re dry.
It loses its way,
It takes new shapes.
It stumbles back,
You know when it’s there.
And like everything in nature,
It comes back around.
And it begins, again.
Happy World Poetry Day!