With the fakest of the fake smiles,

And the most grumpy face,

I wonder how you act like,

You hate every surface.

With no patience at all,

Confidence with grace,

Who did what for your,

Such a grumpy face.


The Fault In Our Stars

We’d been doing this since a long time,

Me, writing poems,

You, listening,

Under the blanket of stars,

Each night,

Like a ritual.

What has changed today is,

Either the stars are dimmer,

Or the poems sadder,

Or the fact that,

You started writing,

Me, listening.

Each night,

Like a ritual.

Wondering what changed us,

The nights,

The poems,

Or the stars.

Either yours,

Or mine.


Kaiyo ko yaadein yaad nahi rehti,

Aur meri yaadein hai ki,

Jaati nahi..

Socha na tha ki,

Tum itne ziddi rahoge,

Dil mein rehke ke liye,

Aur khayalo mein bhi.

Ziddi uss se bhi zyaada,

Jiske saath yaadein tumse zyada thi.

Sochti hu ab kya karu,

Tumhari zidd ka,

Na jaane ki.

Kya karu uss khamoshi ka,

Jo meelo door se pukaarti hai,

Zidd mein.

Kya karu ab,

Unn yaadon ka,

Jo tumhe aati nahi,

Aur meri jaati nahi.


One day you just feel so empty,

From within.

That only hope remains,

Hanging with a tiny string.

One day it all feels overwhelming,

From within.

That only hope carries you,

Like a swing.


There have not been a single day in the last 365 that has not been spent in remembering you.

Why, I ask?

What is the point of remembering someone who must have forgotten you after the sun set that day.

Yet, 365 days later, there is still poetry flowing for someone, the pictures unfaded, the memories bright, the conversations still left where they were.

Unfinished, unrequited, without a closure.