This is my hour. My moment. When the world goes numb in misery, I wake up to tell stories of grief. They are the sad kinds, ones that are bound to leave imprints upon dried cheeks. This is my time. I croon and rant it away.
I woke up with a start. Images from my dream, still fresh, wizened gradually like mist, as I came to my senses. “Hadn’t I witnessed an accident? Wasn’t I driving? Where was I?” Those memories began to fade as I looked up at the clock.
Showing up at weird intervals of time, my deferred dreams flicker akin a broken light. Some dreamer does that to me. When I forget that I am a dreamer too, out of nowhere comes along something or someone with a dream to tell me –
Songs of a Ruin stays immensely hallowed in my head. The reason being, every time I sat to jot a poem, it always reflected my purest form of emotion. I would be drenched completely in my thoughts, feeling every morsel of pain, love, despair and the
Sometimes I think every failure we encounter is nature’s way of warning us, its way of adjusting us, putting us on the scanner once again till we find a better path. Maybe where we were headed in the first place wasn’t supposed to be our
I woke up in a box. At once felt the oddity around. Tiny soldiers circled around me. They had spears in their hands. They poked me with it. I responded. Stood when they poked me once. Walked when they did it twice. Sat when they