For Me


It has been a long time since I wrote something for the sake of it; because it is fun; because it makes me happy; because it is the absolute one thing in the world of activities, and endless To Dos, that I would happily do. I was too focused in attempting to write good poetry that in the process, somewhere I forgot the reason behind all the writing that I did. It all came down to  writing that one poem that would be “it” (which I doubt, even exists); it all became about impressing the reader (assuming that I HAVE a reader,) and my friends.

It got so bad that recently three of my friends came up with a couple of amazing poems, and instead of being proud of them, I found myself in this place where I was resentful of the fact I was not able to come up with something close to what they managed to write. It all came down to jealousy,  which culminated in me writing a bunch of crass poems.

So today I decided enough is enough; that it was time to get a grip of myself, and remind myself why I write. I write because it helps me make sense of the milky way of chaos that makes my mind. Without words I am a swimmer forced to swim with their arms and legs tied up – I would definitely drown. I write because I have to. It is the one way in which I am able to communicate what I have in mind.

Someone a long time back asked me to write for myself. And this is what it is. This is for me and me alone.

I don’t give a damn about you liking or not liking this one. This one is for me.

The Cursor


The cursor waits for the words to pour out of my fingers. Does it think of them as its own? Or is just a stupid servant waiting for an opportunity to serve the master? Am I the master? Do I dare to call myself that? Or am I deluding myself into believing that the words are mine; that they are conceived in my brain? What if this is all just a dream? What if I am the cursor? What does that  say about the hands that I am serving? For all I know, I could be a fictional character and a real person could actually be reading about me.

Now the real question:  Does  it really matter? Who cares?!


Every footstep that I take seems to crumble the ground beneath me. My footing wavers. I sway and there is nothing to which I can hold on to.

Every breath that I take reminds me that the air I breathe is poisonous. It chokes me and blurs my vision.

Every heartbeat is a warning that it cannot go on much longer.

Every night my empty bed rubs my loneliness to my face. 

I crawl on this wide world without balance, without breath, without love towards my death that is somewhere out there.

Whitman was right.

Someone has “stopped somewhere waiting” for me.