While most people grow up playing and hitting their siblings, a single child grows up in a slightly different way. This piece of poetry gives you an insight into the lives of those who ‘grow up with themselves’.


Having an undisturbed
army of toys
and chocolates,
A wardrobe
not inherited ;
customized for ‘the one’,
being a princess to receive
the undivided love
finding only dolls to cuddle
in the middle of the night
is what it means;
growing up with yourself
is what it means
to be a
Single Child.

Tinkling eyes,
a radiant smile
and all that silence;
I was like
a child of apple blossom
planted on
a cemented road
with no ants
loitering around.

I was a bud
that bloomed a little
Portraying my own Prince,
I would say ‘Yes’ to myself
a bit more of charisma,
and soft music

Goofing around,
breaking those vintage vases
and my knees,
Chopping my curls off,
Scribbling on the wall
with my favourite crayon
and fixing everything
before Mum came in,
I grew up to realise-
my world was too abstract.
To face people and interact
wasn’t cakewalk.
I would cry everytime
my expectations drowned
like sand crystals in the sea.

But, every fish has its swim.
I took mine,
to grasp the treasure box
Lord had reserved for me.
Staring at the ceiling,
reflecting in lemon light
filtered by curtains,
I’ve treated myself
with perfect lessons
and discovered
the indescribable.
Reprimanding myself
for the old foolish errors,
I’ve taken each step
towards a shrine
where I have
my own identity.

All through the years,
life has blended
like coffee.
A few lumps,
still there.
But, with the finest beans;
my people
me time‘ –
the most valued of all,
the brew will be worth
the sip.

A Disciple of Nature

When life pricks you at timid corners, to travel and take a closer look at God’s paradise is the best therapy you can ever ask for. There is so much to observe and learn from nature.

Distressed from the routine,
when you slam your books on the table and
glide past those holiday pictures,
it’s already floating in your eyes;
the urge to abandon,
seal your present
and grab a fresh life –
someone’s past or future.
So just hop and prance
rush and jump
to take refuge in nature’s pool.

And when you touch the other world,
feel for it;
Not everyone can have two worlds, together.
Sketch all the hurdles
on a paper,
crumble it
and hurl it into the burning sea of clouds
underneath you.

Aspire to be the Sun being born
outside your window.
Getting out of the blue;
the negativity
it stretches its orangey arms
wide enough for all the attention ;
crying out positivity.

That gust of wind
hitting at you is
a cozy hug
to celebrate your nova bond
attacking all your misery
to serve you as
the strongest force in the universe.

Take a glance;
the sky is sieved by
stubborn branches
and coiled leaves.
Those twigs on the damp road
give a cheerful cry
after every crack;
living through problems.

To love,
learn from the mist
that comes down to its knees
for the trees
dresses the aisle with
royal, rusty rocks,
blushed soil
and churning wind.
How the blooming flowers bend down, the rain descends
to honour
the purest affair
in history.

Get lost while following
the mischievous child –
behind you, in the gullies of red sand
on the side, splashing along tyres
dripping down the cliff, in silence;
he’s hiding in the drizzle.
The drizzle, store it in your eyes
like perfume in a bottle.
Those unbearable times shall compel you
to spray its mist.

Climb a mountain,
go down a valley –
you’d know
how silence defines beauty
and beauty – the storms;
the storms of life.
To live through
the good and bad times
is an art
traceable in every element
of God’s paradise.
explore and behold the extraordinary
housed beyond
your zone.


Abstract: Speech is God’s best and worst gift to mankind. While it represents our strength against evil and empowers us to fight for our rights, it sometimes endangers humans relationships- causing hearts to burn and sink. Sometimes, it is just silence that wins you the battle.

A weapon
tongue and the like,
invigorates you; empowers you in the crowd.
You are worshipped
for they can’t triumph
in your sickening game
of loud words
and mockery.

But it seems,
you’ve had your fifteen minutes of fame
for you still evade me,
convulse in my presence
and crumble.

I sit in the girl’s eyes.
My charisma showing
in her balmy pose.
I fight you with all my might ;
letting you uncoil,
aching your transient mastery.

like a master of bluff
I throw my trump card
and swallowing
every inch of you.
Rendering you voiceless
I kick you into blackness
and seize your existence.

Your demonic laughs and immoral references
corrupted the girl.
You broke her.
like a goddess of patience,
she took me in
for she knew
a game of harsh words
produces no winner ;
only two losers.
Now, she is my woman
the woman of SILENCE.

2 A.M.

We live like ourselves throughout the day but when is it that we feel ourselves the most? There’s this certain energy about 2 A.M. that makes us vulnerable and potent at the same time. This hour is like the lens of the camera, capturing a billion emotions in just 3600 seconds.

When the sky slips a little,
its silver ornaments twitch and shimmer,
sliding closer to
our chamber of secrets.

How a grey-haired man tosses in slumber,
longing for the boy
clad in red
pumped with a radiant smile
beside him, in a photo frame.

There, a mother with bloated eyes
nursing her troubled child
thinking of the golden days,
she, gliding through the forest,
a tropical beauty
‘ the baby must love the Sun too’
desires were passed with genes.

When submissions and
the sips of coffee
soothe your insides
like a serene scenery
but outside
the swish of speeding motors
and squeaking doors
embrace uncertainty and fear.

Talking to oneself,
Realizing mistakes,
we give ourselves
the best lessons
we could ever receive.

An hour that fills you
with wired electricity
brackish water,
you are YOU the most.
2 A.M. is
the most expressive
of all time.


Messing around Mom’s wardrobe,

I find a diamond ring;

All nestled in pastel pink.

Shiningly, it sleeps there.

With a quilt and teddy,

a pillow too fluffy,

your eyes would find me truer.


Of the swishing demon

bombarding my bed

with its forced and sharp breaths. 

In the middle of a glacier, 

it drags me to frost. 

Winters belong 

To, the light 

streaming into slits, 

as blinding streaks. 

To, the Sun-

like a roof in Italy. 

To, the mist that eclipses all

traffic signals, love, betrayal and secrets. 

To, the daisies, brides to be, 

wearing watery stones. 

To, parrots, the patrons of love, 

making me beam midair;

to the call of untold. 

Walking on the pavement

hands in caves of wool, 

I dreamt of 


Stupid transient desires – 

An eventful, quiet life. 

I’d run, run and run;

responsibilities to friendships. 

‘Your winters, my autumns, 

shall move in succession 

like calendars on a desk.’ 

I’d thought 

A thought built on 

sponges of assumptions. 

Life was 

raking the snow off, 

scratching me at timid corners. 




Defeated in my own game. 

I was the pieces of coal ;

broken and red-faced. 

Merely left to 

warm others up. 

I went through the gates, 

never, the dandelions, drooling. 

Noticed your blinking eyes, 

never, the butterflies beneath. 

Walked on the damp soil, 

never, to the sunflowers, prying for affection. 

I felt myself everyday, 

never, the wondrous soul, caged inside. 



I used to envelope you

with the rosy cheeks you had.

The clock would tick away

the walls blushed.

Nuzzled against me, not even a budge.

Flying away with dragonflies,

the hazy winds would foster you.

Dancing like dandelions

in a fantasy world planted new.

A tale where 

flinging your fairy hair, 

bat kisses the heaven. 

Striding across the worldly road, 

you’ve been a theif once, twice a king. 

Used like your favourite crayon, 

reduced to shavings. 

A concealer hides me easily ;

phone calls are more important. 

White screens with jumbled alphabets 

show you a fancy world 

with sweeter cakes, 

fascinating unicorns. 

A strong adhesive; probably you can’t break. 

Now, the sun shines in the night. 

Dusk and dawn, all the same. 


In the mist of my drowsy dreams, 

there only rests 

a shapeless smile 

on your shaped face. 

The Chunk of Spirit 

When my distressed face from the gloomy day at school passes the threshold of the empty house, I can always weigh upon the possibility of receiving solitude. I don’t drop my bag down and change my clothes but leap to the magical corner of the house- the shelf in the refrigerator that holds my camouflaged bricks of treasure. Yes, my rainbow of happiness consists of chocolates, licorice and cakes. From the depressing impulses  to the hormones of happiness, sweetness tranquilizes the boil of blood. The moment that untidily broken piece of power falls into the mouth, it numbs and melts, just like a frozen raindrop on the husky’s ears. It sticks to the palate yet those eager buds sense and sink its essence in, something they never do with leafy vegetables. While I contemplate and gain serenity, the little fragment leaves its imprints for me to twitch my tongue and materialize my glee again. The saliva and the layer of wonder couple up, and my throat like a butterfly, sucks in all the nectar. 

How I ponder humans could be candied, so they too could smudge the world with their sugar-coated love, freeze the moments and assure that everything’s going to be real . How I wish humans could be bowls of sugar syrups, that never corrugate but always light up our eyebrows.