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All posts by Prashant Singh

image of a baby for children of pain

Children of Pain

I know it is hard to get, But those little soft fingers You have rolled up in your palms Are anything but innocent; They have scraped against someone’s insides; You have come from a place of pain. They have suffered in silence When you were eating

image for missed deadlines in my head

Deadlines in My Head

Every second I am out of it. I feel like I am running out of time. That cliched image of me clinching sand as it slides past my palm paints the canvas in my head. I have created these little deadlines unknowingly, and I have

image of a road for the road poem

The Road

I am walking. I think I am; The road walks the other way. A tiny kiosk sells death in all sizes While people flock in huge numbers to die; They ask for their favourite cigarette flavours. A girl preens her hair trying to find What

fading time clockpunchers of IT

Clock Punchers of IT

They would rise in unison, walk around like ghosts and would fall into their chairs as if controlled by a remote. Their big hopeless eyes would stoop with them in their dullness. Their bleak lashes would then flap occasionally to reveal more dead inside –

image of a brain painting for unto comprehension

Unto Comprehension

People often implore; They want words to eat that make sense. They seek this from a twisted man Who is trying to understand What words mean in his head As they twine and whine and intertwine To spit out what glib isn’t, And the profound

image for broken people

Broken People

We are the broken people. The fallen souls. The shattered hearts. The twisted, constricted echoes of a hollow body. We don’t make a sound. We croon. We weep. We are always crying, fading away gradually from the inside. Our angst nibbles us every moment. It

image of a child painter drawing

The Dream Slayers

Remember, when I brought my vivid painting to you With hopeful eyes to see what you thought of it? I came to you to seek your genial nod at things I could make. Remember, how you laughed at my shoddy house, at a skewed face?

an image of a knife removing the silent letter k

The Silent Epigram

When letters go silent in a word Where do they go? Do they ever make it out? How do people know That they are there? Not just anywhere, Hiding somewhere In a world of words In plain sight, And yet no one values their existence,

reminiscing book cover

Reminiscing Book Review

Reminiscing isn’t a day’s work. You get that when you see a cadence of poetry caught between its whopping 200 leaflets. They speak of love lost, sing songs of tragedy, of a broken heart that claims to have reconciled but clearly hasn’t. There are years

image of a girl surrounded by balloons

Dreams for the Skies

A balloon. Its thread tangled to a Rose Plant. It struggles with the wind. Comes close to being pricked, but rises again every time. Wants to break free. But is tied down by its thread that won’t let go. A sudden gush of wind flows.