Of Nostalgia And The Night Sky.

Even if everything else falls apart, the moon will still be exceptionally beautiful on dark nights. The stars will still glimmer, teasing you, reminding you of the naive dreams you once had to capture the night sky into a glass jar to keep by your bed side- dreams that you have long since labelled ‘impossible’ and discarded. The night will bring with it nostalgia and memories you cannot escape from, memories of the boy who smelt like lemons and winter, frosty to the touch, or the girl with autumn leaves in her hair whose dark eyes showed you light the sun never could. Try all you might, squeezing your eyes close so tightly you see galaxies on the inside of your lids, but you will not be able to rid your mind of images of the people who gave you their all, putting their hearts in the palms of your hands, only to have you throw them all away ruthlessly. It’ll come back to haunt you now, how you broke them into a million pieces, but you’ll still feel no regret, you’ll feel no pain.
So climb onto the roof with your pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and try to smoke away the emptiness in vain, because the worst is yet to come.


Dumb Charades.

I wonder darling, some days when you sit beside me as we continue this charade of ours, do you hear my jaws as they grind together hard enough to resemble rusty machinery that cannot be made to function again, no matter how much oil is poured into its ancient joints? Do you look at me from the side of your eye, and see a statue of hollow stone, and can you hear my heart as it beats against its stone prison as hard as ever, begging to be let free? Can you see how the thorns stick into my bloody back from these thrones of ours? Do you feel the heat of the flames that lap at my feet, threatening to melt this girl of ice and snow, or do you admire how they reflect in my black eyes instead?
Do you even see the blood as it drips from where my nails have cut into my palms too deep, do you notice the crimson stains as they grow slowly on the arms of these seats that provide no rest in all their glory?
You used to say you could hear my words before they even left my mouth, but these days, why can’t you feel my screams as they rise from my gut, only to die in my throat?

I wish I had known before, ruling in hell isn’t all it is made out to be.

Guilt-ridden Hallucinations.

The other night my dear, as I lay down to sleep, this heart of mine stopped beating for a second or two as your image burnt through my mind and your laughter haunted my ears; I wheezed for breath but it felt like my throat had constricted until there was no passage for air.
I coughed and coughed in a desperate attempt for air until scarlet droplets covered the white-tiled floor by my feet and my head felt as light as it would whenever I breathed in your scent, it felt like the guilt of your death would finally crush me, but just then the door burst open and he rushed in, worry evident in his familiar pretty eyes as he took in my tortured state, blood painting my lips red.
He helped me to my feet and then to the bathroom with a firm and gentle grip, and handed me an aspirin and a glass of water after I had rinsed the blood out of my mouth, just like you always did.
There was an uncanny similarity between you and he, I saw it in the way he took the glass from me and set it down on the side table, little too close to the edge, before following me out to the balcony and in the way he swatted the lit cigarette away from my lips and crushed it viciously under his heel, directing a disapproving look at me.
I couldn’t take it anymore, the similarity, it was too much and I started laughing.
I laughed and laughed and laughed, and it was the laugh of a crazed mind, a mad woman.

You would not stop torturing me from even beyond the grave itself, it seemed.

Smoke and Fire.

Looking back now, I see we were every cliche love story ever gone wrong, and yet we weren’t even a love story, not even a story by far. All we ever were, were a few chapters of some cheap sad paperback called life where nothing works out right, where I wore multiple rose tinted glasses one over the other to stay in my dreamy, perfect world. A world in which one perfect rainy day, the universe would give me everything I’d ever wanted, and I’d be oh-so-glad for never giving up every time I looked at you; all the universe did was rip away my rose lens with such ferocity it left me with bleeding eyes and burning pupils, unblinking till I was more numb than my fingers on my favorite winter days, too numb to realize that we were slow dancing in a burning room, and now it’s too late to get out; all that’s left of us is smoke and fire, and a pile of charred bones on the ground, while somewhere, the universe laughs in its malevolence.

I once read somewhere that the dreamers are always the ones left locked up in gray walled rooms, while everyone else gets to ride off into their glorious sunset, and I remember scoffing at that, but here I am, suffocating and choking on my own ashes while you get the perfect world I’d always dreamed of.

And then people ask me why I don’t smile like I used to anymore.



Oh, we were such a paradox, darling,

No wonder everything turned out as it did;

We were never made to last,

Not even for long,

And my life is a never ending summer now,

But summer was never our season anyways,

Our times of the day were always

The brightest and the darkest,

The noon and the night,

But I like dawns,

And late afternoons now

Because the sky has never turned

Golden to purple, with all the colors in between

As I looked at you,

The sun has never been on the verge of disappearing,

It’s eternal road run for the day,

As I’ve dreamt about you.

It has never heard me describe to it out loud,

How your eyes crinkled when you smiled,


That was always the moon,

Burdened with my quiet tears

Of bittersweet agony

In the screaming dark;

Oh darling,

You were poison to the fragments of rotten soul

Residing in my gut,

But let’s not forget it was I,

Who decided to drink up




In my search

For ecstasy and a ribcage

I could burrow into and call


Image credits: Shafaq Mujtaba

Also, guys, I’ve just posted a poem on The Artistics as well! Check it out now!


Letters To The Dead.

Oh darling, I’ve heard them say life is about building bridges for someone without knowing if you’ll cross it with them, and every time I come across those words my heart almost stops to beat, and not in a good way either. If there’s one thing I’ve never wanted to be, it is selfish, but all these words do is tell me that this mourning, this grief that I have sunk into after laying you to rest is selfish, as if they expect me to be fine! What do they know about the fire in my heart, the hole in my gut? What do you know about the extent of my love, and now of my rage? I will not return, and neither will you; we were always filled with too much pride, too much ego to look beyond at anything else, but you never knew that, did you? You couldn’t see your own two feet because of that ego of yours, and it is what drove you to your ruin. No one knows anything at all about the sluggish blood that flows through my veins as if it were gasoline, burning the fire in my heart brighter and brighter every second, I cannot sleep, I cannot rest, all I can do is wait with bated breath for the beginning of your fall.

For you must know by now mon cher, everything that rises must face an equal fall. It is the law this universe swirls upon, and it will be the harbringer of your demise, my love.

Image credits: Shafaq Mujtaba

Cycle Of Life.

We’re humans, and we are sad creatures with an affinity for self destruction.

We fall in love; true, mad and deep love; destructive love; love that brings us together only to tear us apart, as if it were but a figment of our cruel imagination, as if it never really existed. It leaves us empty and broken, and we break ourselves even more in efforts to forget the euphoria, we look to other substances in desperate attempts to recreate the high but can you ever try to replay a dream?

So we smile in our sadness, and we laugh and laugh until we’ve forgotten the difference between real and fake; we perfect the art of deceit so well, standing in front of mascara stained and bearded reflections that you wouldn’t be able to tell from our eyes the chaos that resides inside, the shards that pierce through our guts.

And thus, we trudge on through life, breaking and falling apart more and more each day, until love puts us back together again, but only to rip us apart even more fiercely this time; this is the cycle of life.

Image credits: Shafaq Mujtaba


I used to think, some days

We were cursed forever,

The two of us,

Playing pretend,

Throwing our hearts away,

Over and over and over,

And yet, never

To each other,


You chased after another,

While I withered here,

Keeping the beast inside locked and caged,

But now, it’s too late.

The cage weakened,

It broke open,

While I was too occupied

Collecting starbeams in a jar

For you.

So now,

When you see me okay,

Just know,

You’ve only got

Yourself to blame


And I might still have my bad days,

And I might still wake up at 4 in the morning,

Out of breath and suffocating,


On the memories you have left me

But you don’t need to know that.

You don’t need to know that

You don’t know me anymore,

You don’t need to know

About these new masks I’ve gotten,

And how they feel like home,

You don’t need to know

About the lies that slip through my teeth,

So effortlessly,

You don’t need to know

About the hole in my gut,

That leaves me empty,

And yet so much lighter,

You don’t need to know

About how I’ve broken my promise too,

And forgiven myself for it;

I’ve changed.

Image credits: Shafaq Mujtaba

A Bad Day.

A bad day

Turns into a few

And it’s a bad week

Before you realize,

Now its three bad weeks

In a row;

A bad month

Succeeded by brethren,

12 of them,

A bad year now

And you feel so helpless,

Wondering every moment,

If you’ll ever feel the sun again

Or the peace you felt

Every time the sky lit up mauve,

Sliced by lightning;

The detachment is getting

Too much to bear,

The quiet is

Too eerie now,

Oh how you long

For noise of some kind

Even if it were

Your own strangled screams.




Something is Missing.

My worst fears

Are slowly unraveling


One by one,

Tearing out

My sanity

From desperate clutches,

Leaving me

With bloody hands

And torn fingernails.

It was I

Who taught you

To pick yourself up,

It was I

Who taught you

That it was okay

To fall down.

You were the perfect student;

You learnt too well.

You have picked yourself up,

And walked on

Proudly displaying your

Battle scars,

But it seems to have never crossed your mind

That while picking you up,

I lost all my strength,

Hardly able to take another step,

I called you

But your victory over your demons

Seems to have blocked your ears

And you never turned back,

Taking with you

A part of me,

What was left,

After I had lost

All the other ones

And I try to find them now

In my writings,

My dreams,

My beloved books,

But nothing seems to work,

I sit and repeat your name

For hours,

Till all meaning has been

Unhinged from

The name itself.

I sit and stare

At the brightly colored wall

For hours

Until the colors start to




Into one another,

Just like my memory,

There are blank lapses;

Something is missing.

Image taken from here.