But now, I’m the Sun

It was beginning to get good.
I was starting to feel whole again.
Everything was perfect,
until you decided I wasn’t.
I could have ripped my lungs out
to make you stay but you would have not looked my way.
It’s strange that sometimes the people
who you think to be the strongest,
are feeble hearts.

You’ve been up on my mind recently.
I know I’ll never make it up to yours.
Earlier, I used to be a twinkling star in the sky,
with all the light you gave me,
my joy was immeasurable;
from all the things you said
and all the times your eyes met mine.

But now, I’m the sun.
Shining above all the cloudy eyes and
sleepless nights you presented me with.
I left it all behind.
And look, now I’m lighting up the whole sky.


A mixed bag of thoughts

I’m walking,
I’m walking into the night;
every frame is dark,
the silence is powerful –
I can hear my blood
gushing in my veins;
I can hear my lungs as they
let out the oxygen borrowed.
It’s so cold here
but I feel a tinge of warmth,
and I wonder if it is the only thing
that keeps me mortal;
if that’s the only feeling
I want to hold on to.
I can feel like breeze tracing its way
on my skin,
flies like a ghost through my hair,
runs from my eyelids
to my ticklish abdomen;
the sound of my footsteps
I mistake for my heartbeat –
for I could never beat with
all this proportion.

I’m walking,
I’m walking into the night;
my only companion is my head –
this mad network of premises,
it drives me crazy.
Maybe it was meant for me
to write it down,
for all the voices stand silenced
after they’ve been written about.

I’m walking,
I’m walking into the night,
and I think to myself,
what holy debris must we
be made of,
for we do not tremble
when the waves hit us;
we’re like a flame,
we come in small packages,
but we can burn the moment,
we do not flicker,
but we possess the world of its angels;
we do not cringe when the sand under our feet,
becomes into a heap over our heads;
we laugh in the face of storm,
and we say we’re about the adventures;
we look into the eyes of the sun
and our gaze won’t move,
our eyes won’t burn,
the sun waivers,
and it apologizes,
we stand on our own,
with our feet half sunken
into the battleground,
and we’re strong,
and we’re invincible.

I’m walking,
I’m walking into the night;
and I discover,
each one of us here is a universe in the making,
we were born a star
then we’re a galaxy
and soon enough,
we’re a whole universe.
We’re all evolving,
we’re universes in motion,
we’re matchsticks that possess the strength
to burn down a tornado;
we’re arrays of stardust
that cannot be tamed;
we’re epiphanies of our hearts;
we’re poems of our souls;
we are so much more than
just another weight
in a world full of weighing scales.

Nights scare me,
they lure me too,
it’s difficult to say
whether I am scared of the dark
or the million thoughts that criss-cross
in my head as I walk,
I walk into the night.

Finding #2

This article is a finding. A discovery, a realization.
I had been spending a lot of days doing absolutely nothing, just regular chores.
I felt caged. My days weren’t moving, the sand was still in the hourglass and nothing except my body seemed to age. It was horrific.
It was then that I came across a little article that gave me some perspective. It didn’t have the writer’s name or blog address. I didn’t know who wrote it. I didn’t know who she was. But she seemed to be suffering through the same colorlessness I was. The author had, in very simple terms, stated that her existence seemed unimportant and, in my words, that she felt like a pastel surrounded by bright reds and greens. She wrote about her days being repetitive and her weeks being unproductive. The only solution that she found, was to work them through. Have faith and keep going. That is how she found her way out.
I too after reading that, felt empowered. It’s been long, since this little paragraph had happened and now that I’m through, I wanted to share.

Nobody will tell you about
the days in the midst,
the sloppy ones.
Between two great days,
the ones that blur into the days
before and after it,
the ones with no sharp edges.
The days we
lose all perspective,
the days you want to
rip your lungs apart.

Nobody writes about those days;
and I don’t know how to feel on those days,
where I don’t feel anything at all.
I don’t know how to breathe on those days,
where I don’t even want to survive.

I’ve never read poetry about the
non-eventful days,
these are the days when the
only accomplishment you made
was to not hold your breath
until it holds itself.
The days you made
through waiting
for the sun to die,
so you can bury your face into
a pillow,
and turn off your sane,
and when you can finally hope
for the sun to be brighter the next day,
just enough to blind you off
of your demons.

I’ve had my share of such days,
I’ve had nights where all I did,
was look at the blank ceiling and wonder
if stars ever wanted to be contained;
I’ve had nightmares about falling
from the sky into a
skin that aches from all the days
my soul was vile
and my body, paralyzed;
and I can tell you with
all certainty,
that these days,
will pass.
These nights, when you don’t feel
like yourself, will end.
The sun shall rise again,
you will get another day,
another chance to make moments,
and however dull it might have been last night;
The sun shall rise again.

For years,
I’ve hated my body
I’ve said things I can’t take back.

For years,
I’ve tucked away flabs
of my abdomen
in loose t-shirts
for years,
I’ve criticized every
atom of my body for taking
too much space.

For years,
I’ve torn myself down,
I’ve idolized the magazines –
the girls in them,
the pretty ones,
the ones who got the whole package.
But now I know –
they’re slim
and they’re tall,
they look great,
and they walk great;
but I have a head,
that’s made of thoughts
and I write great.

When I think, I realize,
I never adored myself
the way I adore those photos
on my phone screen,
I never stood up for my body;
I’ve always agreed with the
“Accepted Standards of Beauty”
like it was a holy book,
and all that it said,
had bathed in authenticity;
I let my eyes shut in this illness
and when I woke up,
I was trying to bury my body
my beautiful body,
into a little body tucker.

There were times,
when I reconsidered my choices,
ones I made and the ones I am yet to,
I thought
maybe I don’t have what it takes,
what if I cannot make it work?
all because I was too fat,
I was just too fat.

This word F A T
has ruined more of me
than anything else.
I’ve been laughed at,
I’ve been called a junkyard,
an eating machine.
To those who tell me
I should eat less,
that I eat too much;
to them I say –
fuck you.
Fuck you for making me feel
sick in my own skin;
fuck you for pointing fingers at me
when there was no one else to blame.

If I want a burger, I ask for it.
But between the words
“a cheeseburger please”
coming out of my mouth
and the guy handing me my package,
the hell that I go through,
is inexplicable.
the stares of the people,
the thin ones,
the ones who think they look better
so much better,
the ones who giggle behind my back,
from my order at the counter
to their conclusion that
I don’t deserve to eat
whatever the fuck I want to ,
it is heartbreaking
and it is not

I shouldn’t be judged
on the basis of how my stomach
folds when I sit,
or how my thighs jiggle when I dance,
I shouldn’t be judged
on how I run slower than others,
and if I have to wait a second,
after a flight of stairs
to catch my breath.

Judge me,
I ask you to;
But judge me about
my opinions,
my thoughts.
Judge my head,
Judge my hand.
Do not judge me
on how many slices of pizza I eat
and do not fucking judge me
about how I take up two seats
on the bus.

It’s not acceptable, alright?
When are we going to learn that it’s not okay to laugh at something the next person is insecure about? When will we learn to be mature and take responsibility for our actions?
Do not laugh at the fat girl who’s eating a piece of a cake – she’s entitled to it.
And she shouldn’t need to write a message this long to make you understand that.


You’re the feeling of a bonfire
on a chilly night,
You’re the reason the sun shines so bright;
You’re the stab on my back that’s dripping blood,
And you’re the pile of things
that I don’t need anymore
but never throw out.

You’re the medicine I can’t afford;
And you’re the storm that’s curling me up;
You’re the break of dawn;
And you’re the smell of sunlight.

I haven’t tasted heaven,
Yet somehow you remind me of it;
You make flowers grow in the darkest
corners of me;
But some parts – the light doesn’t reach
after the wounds have healed;
The flowers die and so does your scent.

You’re like rain, soft falling drizzle,
Slithering down the side of my face;
And you’re a storm, the furious tornado –
that shattered the windows in my house.

You’re the reason I fall asleep at night,
And the words I hum when I’m happy;
You’re the stitches on my lips,
My heart reeks of you.

Your memory is the taste on my lips,
The pages in my journal;
Your memory will live forever in my tears,
those that went and all those yet to come,
My cries carve out a chapter,
My scars tell a story,
Your memory stains my soul,
It kills me and
it tears me apart.

I loathe you,
and I love you too,
Some moments you make me fly,
Others, you let me fall hard.

This I cannot decide,
Whether you are not for me,
Or the Universe just doesn’t want us to be.


Poetic as it sounds,
I’m monstrous near you.
I inhale you,
And I breathe out flames.
You trigger a demon in me that no one knows about.

You derange me,
I was a wide eyed believer,
And you turned me into an atheist.

The cold in your veins is getting to mine;
It’s time I get my weapons out,
I can’t be your dragon anymore.
I will build my walls higher, concrete.
You can’t control me.

Fire that burns my lungs
seems sweeter,
Agony is frequent;
I fear freedom.
You carve out every inch of
joy out of me;
I’ve seen the door to hell
too many times;
And I don’t think I’ll survive
for long.

I don’t want to live a life this sad;
I don’t want to be just another handwriting
on the wall of wasted souls,
or the people who lived in fear;
I want to be counted
among the warriors,
Those who freed themselves.
I want my life’s journal to be inked
in every color,
not just red.

I’m sorry,
This you need to know –
I love you,
But I have to let you go.

Finding #1

This post is basically just me sharing an experience.
And it’s the very first time I’m doing this, hence the title.
So if you’re expecting a sullen piece of poetry or an article on motivation, come back another time. If you wish to read a 17-year-old’s definition of happiness, welcome aboard!

On 16th July 2016, I posted about my blog on social media for the first time.
Before this, no one knew about it. I was scared.
I had been thinking a lot about it, and my friends told me that I should tell people about my blog – so I finally, after 2 years of having it, decided to do it.

The kind of response that I got was magical. And when I say magical, I don’t just mean “loved it all” or “wow you’re so good”. I did get a few of those, yes.
But there were a few, where people told me that they could relate to what I wrote and that it made things a little easy on them. And that I thought, was my purpose.
I was ecstatic.
Not movies’ happy, not “butterflies in my tummy” kinda happy, neither “seeing pizza” happy. It was another level of happy. It was something like “hugging your best friend after 6 months” happy. I’m probably just babbling now.

A friend of mine told me that he too, just like me is scared. He says that he is surrounded by people who don’t appreciate him. And all I told him was that – the audience will never be right. The audience will never be filled with people who share the same passion, same agony as you. That’s the way that it is.

I’ve previously written about the horror of society and the ‘need for approval’; turns out – that was the main reason holding me back. We’re all scared of those judgemental bastards sitting behind their phone screens and disapproving what we do. But the truth is, they’re gonna stay. They’ll always be here. You can’t afford to be afraid of them.
So tell them. Show them what you’re good at. It’s about time they shut their faces.
Don’t shelter under your fear, if you love you, they will too.

The idea is –  do it.
Do it now.

At first, it’s scary. Then you’re excited. Now comes anxiety. And then, it feels like freedom.
When you think that people know you, and you know that they’re okay with it, you have so much more potential at being yourself.
You gain confidence.
You get to see a side of you that you didn’t even know you had.
You impress yourself.
You’re immune, immune to anything and everything.
Whatever life throws at you now, you’ll be fine.
And when you know that, you’re unstoppable.