A sad story about my “P”

A part of me is dying,

unless I do a thing or two

It stares at me with a hope

still there’s nothing that I could do


It dreams of an open sky,

full of birds reds and whites

It dreams of ins and outs

of the world full of colored lights


But its dying is what it believes

it speaks to me with a hope for help

weeps softy in a trembling voice

and opens up with a cry for self

death is closer, it speaks again

death is nearer, it shovels its pain


I hold it by my hands,

and I map those little curves

rather wrinkles on a soft skin,

revealing those fettle nerves

death is closer, it speaks again

death is nearer, it shovels its pain


More than a year now,

it has barely had any sight

A tight hug was the closest

while resting those inner fights

death is closer, it spoke again

death is nearer, it shoveled its pain


Now, I hide it in my secret closet

The thing that I’ve always done

I ask it to have some patience

as inside my heart I’d feel that burn

death is closer, I thought again

death is nearer, I shovel my pain

-J, 1/2/2018


Revisiting Past


Revisiting our past is bewildering. We lean on to moments that hang on to the supposed sky we don’t know the distance of. Though blurred and inaccessible, we still believe that they are emotionally involved with us and someday will be possible again. We are so sure that we still connect to them by a thread, and we have a firm grip on it. But we fail to comprehend the fact that it is cut loose and will always be beyond our reach.

She will be gone

Yesterday, the trouble seemed so far away

for yesterday she was all upon me,

Her breath was warm enough to let me survive

in her clear blue eyes, where I could see

Me and her, a possibility

Yesterday, her presence was the reason

for my dreams to sketch arrows at her skin

She would take me places, holding hands

luring me to think impossible with a hope that’s been

For life before death, an inevitable

Her witty performs and million thoughts

I would drink from everyday,

and the blurred images

she created, every time she was pushed a heart away

From love to hate, an unexplainable

Yesterday, it was me, her and us,

Today its me, us lost in those dots of light

She has been forgotten, ruined by few

and soon in this dust of burning air she might

be gone, taking us with her, though avoidable

(here ‘she’ refers to mother nature)

All the way

White lines emerge on the verge of the first slow sight

that my eyes are released to

those rays deepen slowly as I open up

with the world of colors that the sky belongs to

A gush of wind push them with a sense

of existence of actual living songs

which our ears will barely notice

with no air touching the eyes of filling the lungs

Sounds those strings reverberate

pokes and pinches every skin we expose

stalls every imaginations and voice inside

and smothers that only our heart knows

I hate to believe that life is felt

on hours of uninspired text reading

rather we depend on those wide smiles

and a warmth of a company we sit in ….

(Inspired by the music of  “All The Way Down – Once”)



Death is a word we love to play with, use it in emotional ventures but avoid in reality. Death can be insensitive sometimes and reason for few to pour down the wreckage that they’ve been holding for ages. Death is difficult; death is what we believe is an end.

The clock picked 10 and 30 while I was in my pre sleep comfort zone. Dreams had been weaving around my only space of imagination which for sudden was violated by a ghostly cry that enumerated the night’s atmosphere. Like in horror movies, the sound pierced through the weakened heart with a wicked flow, scared is how I replenish it. I was in no mood to stick my bones straight, so instead took my smart phone expecting people to reply to my hellos. Though how hard I tried to avoid it, the resonated cries, and then of many, dragged my attention to the place where this episode was taking place. I had to get in the scene. So, I pulled up by half pants, and forgetting how chilled the night had gotten, took a step out.

It was third time in a span of 4 months that I had participated in a death ceremony. Like always, there were women lined up outside of the house of the one who had finally embraced death. They were all soaked up in tears, and like a Buddhist chant, had been repeating the cry sequence calling out the word that meant their relationship with the dead. “Yha maa !!… Ya Hajurma !! … Ya Tari ma !!… Yaa nini !!”  .. so were the cries that had been hung in the throats of those. Looking at them, I kind of doubted if they actually meant what they were doing. Were the tears they were shedding for that old dead woman had any meaning? Of few, they might have poured their hearts out, but rather I could see many pretend. Ah .. society!! Only if there were no one staring at them, they would have secretly smiled and thanked god that finally the old woman left for good.

Palas arrived, and everybody took some sort of formation to let them in. They got inside the house, and brought out the lifeless body. Covered in faint creamy white colored clothe, the body looked more like a sack full of old cloths. Palas swung it upon the wooden bar and the husbands of the daughters of the dead body slowly carried it in their shoulders. And like some kind of parade, in a line, everybody moved. Women were in front crying in the loudest voice, then the son-in-laws carrying the body, the relatives behind them, and finally the neighbors carrying bunch of materials that would be used to burn the body.

I had heard how unlucky had she been like a year before to not die even after falling from a third floor of the building. She was already too old to do anything, and had started to lose memory, and nervous activity. Life was pretty hard for her, was too for her son. So, the death would have been a relief, was what many spoke about when she fell from the third floor. She did not die then. Many even said that the reason for her to survive that fall was that she had to suffer more for the sins she had done in her life. I don’t know much about her, or her past life, so I have always believed that life has been cruel to her.

The tiny drops accumulated and hit the floor in a bang. We were moving in our pace, and the rain was the last thing that we had expected. Rain was no way good. Things were starting to get wet, and we needed to hurry. Then again I thought, unlucky her. To burn the body as quick as possible, dry straws were required, and then with rain, they were wet. We hurried a bit, and finally when we reached the place where the body was to be burned, the rain stopped. We did what we had to and quickly returned home.

In a way back to home I started to think of people around me and imagined each one of them dead, one by one. A string of emotions punctured my heart. Imagining things hurt that bad, what if it happened in real, how would I react? My imaginations are inevitable, it’s just that I’m not so sure that I will live to see them happen.

The world will die someday, the life too. Only if those emotions could die sooner…



It’s a belief that we’re stuck in, though the rays of its pattern is same for everyone, we observe it in many different ways. It’s not the fault of the thing that lets them in, but the quality of it that limits the amount of those inside. And followed by it, is the inadequate mass that keeps us in top of the animal race. The way it is molded, is the way those entered rays are refracted inside with variation in angles, causing interpretations. This angle variation differs from one to other giving rise to fluctuations in the perception of even a same thing. Belief is a dangerous armor that we let out eyes deal with. It’s one big world but is a million, diverged by ways the people look at it.


The sun rests and the sky turns itself off

only letting the distant spark

fill them as white cosmic spots

certainly something that won’t trouble eyes

The colors of sun that painted the sky

drag themselves down the horizon

along with the heat that blows away

till it gathers in an edge inviting death

Frogs pronounce their presence

accompanied by crackling continuous sound creators

dogs express their inner-selves

with a quick howl of outer demeanors

Any voice will spread around

a melancholy to those that gets them

foams that ease out parts

and sanctuary will be inbound

There are those times, when in dark we dream colors

and in pitch silence we create sounds