Thursday, October 16, 2008


you got me in a choke-hold.
choke more.
check me.
life line.
check mate.
hate blind
cursed fate
fake case
suffa cate.
catch phrase
e rase
caught breath
brain dead
dread lock
lock down.
down cold
choke hold.

Friday, October 10, 2008


On new students.

its like a parade of masks
i get lost in plastic smiles
hollow eyes
flash all too briefly in my eyes.
not quite.
it is Fall, and they, like me,
are unsure of who to be.

till then let's all dwell
in meaningless laughter.
Ricochet off the walls.

On some remark by the World Lit,prof.

it is hardly paradise
if not golden.
if angels persist
on moldy wings.

On some new girl in tutorial.

her eyes dance
around the room
making us
she glides alone here
with her gaze.
dancing the tap dance
in rubber

On sum other person in tutorial

sit a little too composed
for comfort.
A class act
practiced all too many times

Hands that curl and uncurl around soda cans.

Hands that hold onto bus poles, hold on like

they’re clawing, clambering, drowning,

To let slip is to let go.

Hands that

are tiny, and fit into a palm

and curl around a finger

for security, for safety, for



that lay twitching on lonely table tops

twitch to the beat of loneliness, to drawn out breaths

to the stranger who never comes.


that salute to power, hands

that pluck out flowers, hands

that dig graves for the brave, the old, the forgotten,

and the Cherished.


that follow like a breeze around her waistline

as he steers her around the crowd, steers her to

make her his own


that flourish pens, pencils, praises,


that she gently raises

to the Heavens every night in prayer.

Her hands

that pray for peace, for patience, for her


Thursday, September 18, 2008

inspired by Odysseus.

I am
the withered leaf caught
in iron rakes, the
land of eternal gloom,the
infertile eyelid
wrung out of its last
beads of grief.
I am
the agonized soul
that wanders forlorn,the
shattered mirror that yields not my
reflection but a broken
million faces of my wife, my son and my own
heart. I am
I fall.

Every flicker of hope
brings me closer to my ruin.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

of them.

hush now.
i will murmur ballads into your ear of how
they came back and back and back again
they came crying and lying, they came to you begging to be urs
again and again and again
and how is it and why is it was only after they had failed you
and they had told you that it was
who had failed them.
they will not know why they came back, when you
had already slunk away into the shadows into
the corners of your eyes into the tiny
holes in their minds.
how will you tell them then that you had found a new solace in a new
how will you tell them that you played by the rules
that were meant to be broken, because You wrote the rules you wrote
the untouched and the shattered.
how will you tell that you
loved them no more that
the world had spun around and lost itself
a million times over in its
multitudes of intricate threads
that were born and are born
and fade into a nothingness with every passing
and that new stars had shone a million times and a
million new suns had shone every day since
they last went away
and that
it was all a little too late?

hush now, flow
on the clouds of a myriad blues
dewdrops of iridescent hues
and spin
in the embrace
of a gentle dream's glaze.
hush now and forget
every word that was said.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008


Sometimes I feel like a MS word file.
stretched taut to the sides of the page.
fully justified
of every breath I take.
I am predictable.
My full stops, questions are all in check.
I am margined.
My personal bubble
1.5 inch
The white sides roll around me like a shroud.


When i miss you
i sing
memories into my
joy at things
we used to do.


I can already see the story spelt out
across the sky.
I'm my own oracle.
I sense disaster as it comes.
sense Disintegration
of a bond. a habit. a feeling.
Knowing you care. Knowing you're there.



it's like we're both on
parallel highways
suspended, by parallel
strings high above
the world.
Our realities don't
We stay rigid in our place.
Twist and turn to cater to
everyday monotony.

But for the brief moment
our breaths
I am alive.

Before reality pulls, before
we return to the gray, the
dull, the here and now
the never will be.



i want to see your hands with
my fingertips.
trace out
your palms like a
fragile, torn
i want to
tiptoe across your
intricate woven paths and
find an
eternal perdition
in your

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

Snippets 2.

These ones r purely nostalgia-based..

This ones for you mum.

Now,I meet
swollen feet
in faded Nike's,
in my dreams.
They remind me of better days.
My mother lays
Healing fingertips on my heel
the feel
of that warmth
lulls me to sleep.


Dad drove me to school
on days
with pouring rain
no light rays.

Today I wait
my bus
Fifteen minutes late.

Saturday, May 31, 2008


just a heads up-----------> emo moment ensuing.
well it IS a poetry blog so you can't complain.
anyways, this was a quick sketch written in the car after a ride out at the seaside., well technically oceanside but whutever.. It's fairly.... well., elementary...or like basic..But i find that sumtimes the first words that come out, the ones that haven't been thought out through and mulled over a million times, those are the best, purest, truest ones.
soooooooooo without further ado, here it is.


Gold dipped leaves
that sway to a silent rhythm
unheard by our tense minds
I find
in the moment.
The stillness
the void inside.
Don't hide.
It is not weakness which
makes me sigh
at the amber of the sky
the molten pink hues
that light up my window
in rippling iridescent triangles.
I let the rays
my soul
unfettered, unconfined
no blindfolds.

For every time I meet Adversity
I seek solace in little things,
Sunsets that bring

Monday, May 26, 2008

Untitled 2.

Under construction...but ima put it up anway..

When I woke up this morning, half

comatose, the only thing

on my mind even remotely

close to any definition of ‘challenge’ was

to rush and catch the 9:11 bus.

The only goal, to have breakfast

To make sure my clothes were ironed

Out, hair brushed, contacts

In place.

Keep up with this


Trying to arrange, organise

The chaos in my mind, to still

The pendulum that is my world.


It hits me that

The banality of my life, the stale

Menial detail, pettiness

Of my existence is laughable.

What are my goals? My challenges?

To think

I’ve made each day my battle,

Each day the ironed shirt my armour

The bus,

Last of the escaping fleet of ships, the


My last meal.


This poem...doesn't need an introduction. It's for me to know and for you not to try and find out. :)

But now when I listen to songs you and I used to sing to

They play like obituaries,


I sit in respect.

Let the clumsy stitches shine

Few more seconds vulnerable, remembering,

before I conceal the calluses again.


But now when I when I write about you and I

There is no more room for we, us.

The two words absurd


In this sphere of honeyed lies,

Of petty fairytales.

I shatter each glass slipper, firmly,

The shards


Sunday, April 6, 2008


This ones from May 2005, probably the longest one I've ever done. Again, very doodle-type..utterly random, and inspired by Elizabeth's Bishop's poems 'The Fish', and 'In the Waiting Room.'


The glazed eyes smile at me
from the pictures in my hand.
Eternal traps.
Lips pasted in frighteningly huge smiles
turning to painful grimaces
over the years.
The teeth like a yellowing
string of pearls.

I whip back to the past.
my mind shuffling the fraying pages of
a red plastic phone book I
keep in my head.
A-Z. Names whisper, like
struggling to grip, to catch
in that pink-fleshed brain.
Overwhelimg pain
Of nostalgia.

The images of a
life forgotten
flash past
like a black and white movie
and a single finger pressed discretely on Rewind.
A powerful, stubborn finger.
Feelings i faced, those
conversations I had,
jut out like snatches of an
old forgotten song
from a distant room.
the words jumbled
until the dim tune turns into a
dull throb
Aching. Aching.

Till the fish-hooks catch hold.

The distant door opens.
Commotion numbs me
laughter joys
the sorrows scream in my
head like an
angry mob.
seep within

until comes the realization
from the blue,
You may leave it behind.
It will follow you.

Monday, March 31, 2008

Of Us.

You know whats funny, ... i cant even remember who I wrote this for...I was just reading it and saw it saved as a draft, so anyways..putting it out now... its quite,,..graphic I guess...
oh, and emo.
Alwaysssssss that.
Gotta love it.

Of Us

You have been sown into my eyelids
sealed with wax,right from the innermost corners
spread evenly to the tip.
I blink
and our story spins out from the crevices.
unfolding like a lethargic series of music notes
out of sync.
It may have once been a peaceful melody.
This jarring sound brings no peace now.
No stillness.
No calm. No tranquility.No
Of my mind's numerous echoing questions.
Tumbling over each other to be heard.

Sunday, March 30, 2008


i dont think i have the patience anymore to ever finish a poem, most times i end up doodlin a couple of lines in between classes, or on the bus or so on.... here's sum of those 2 or 3 liners, rangng from when i was 12 till recent..obv the darker, emo-er ones r from when i ws a kid..all of these still need to b worked with but ah, i'll write them down anyways,..

(new ones added.)

On People

These masks that pass around me
Stiff facades
Happy smiled painted on cement.

On Losing touch with Reality

And when the world comes crashing
And when the stars snuff out their
Ans when the darkness seems so heavy, it


On Some Memories.

Cling on like mould
Inside rotten fingernails.

On Growing up.

They won't always be
The pink balls of cheeks
The black-buttoned eyes
The million-layered wraps
of wool, and arms.

On Relationships.

Glue them together.
The perfect pieces
that fit in this imperfect way.
They slip and fall
and slip
and fall.
Hold onto each other
for a child's breath.
Glass sand.
Slipping through these

On Being There.

Crawl inside the palm of my hand.
Dear Thumbelina.
I won't let the world
Hurt you.

On Expectations.

Don't expect me to walk in Your shoes.
They're 3 sizes too big anyway
I shuffle forward.
I fall.
I can't fill them up. I can't wear them
long enough and pretend it doesn't

On Everyday.

I wonder whether the
may not kill me

Might do good for a change.

On having the Writer's block.

A barren land sits inside my head.
Frustrated at itself for being dead.

On Hope

And from the centers of your clenched palms
I will draw out rainbows.

A piece of Sky.

Like a dewdrop caught
in cupped palms
I catch sunsets
in windows.

yeh i know some of these are really random. but they're like inside jokes with some friends so that's okay..


You know how all poems, or most, have a purpose? this one doesn''s just a general rant on soceity, on life, on an unending confusion that exists in my mind.
written during a never-ending holiday in Pakistan, Jan 2007.


Trying to handle
at once.
Be too many people,
For too many people.
Too many faces. Too many masks.
Which Me to Be?

Laziness- lair of vile inclinations
Boredom- limitless time for thoughtlessly drifting
through the mind's endless corridors
and vacant rooms.
Unanswerable Questions.
A weary old vocabulary
Too elusive to be of use.
Weariness of the Soul.
Exhausting Co-operation.
Monotony of the Unwanted.
Insecurity, Inexperience, Innocence.
Tact, Taboo.
Etiquettes of Behaviour
Rules to follow Rules.
Dormant, Stagnant Voices resounding
Echoing undying power
Spinning in a haze
of Endless Time
Endless Space
Thoughts, Ideas, Dreams,
is like

Note: the original format of the poem is actualli much different but sumhow i cant get blogger to save it , it just reverts it to everything aligned completly left or completely center....If anyone knows how to save it in custom format please let me know, ..thanx!!!

Sunday, January 20, 2008

On my poetry.

i wrote this a while back..its inspired by the females around the world. About how they create and inspire but with the passage of time they all grow old, life gets in the way,and all tht creativity is forgotten, and erased, and never truly acknowledged.

On my poetry.

So Let your faces shine with my light.
I am, But a firefly.
I'll vanish before dawn's early glow.
At whose very steps the Darkness scatters.
I am, But a two-day jewel.
All Glow and Shimmer, yet in the end,
I too will join the lonely box of Stones.
For far superior are those, those Age and Time;
The tiniest speckle of my fire will erase.
Until even I will question the existence,
Of that Something,
I so treasured.

So be pleased with these works of art,
These Luckless Masterpieces.
No marble halls or glittering galleries will be their abode.
They too will fade away,
with the dust of the world.
Hold this dear now,
Cherish and Treasure.
Moonlight peeps in for only a few special moments.
The rest is dark Night.

Tonight at noon.

one of the most awkward, and most entertaining poems ive read. It's all Contradiciton and nonsense, followed by a superb ending that clears up everything that preceded it.
By Adrian Henri..


Adrian Henri

Tonight at noon
Supermarkets will advertise 3p extra on everything
Tonight at noon
Children from happy families will be sent to live in a home
Elephants will tell each other human jokes
America will declare peace on Russia
World War I generals will sell poppies on the street on November 11th
The first daffodils of autumn will appear
When the leaves fall upwards to the trees

Tonight at noon
Pigeons will hunt cats through city backyards
Hitler will tell us to fight on the beaches and on the landing

A tunnel full of water will be built under Liverpool
Pigs will be sighted flying in formation over Woolton
And Nelson will not only get his eye back but his arm as well
White Americans will demonstrate for equal rights
In front of the Black house
And the monster has just created Dr. Frankenstein

Girls in bikinis are moonbathing
Folksongs are being sung by real folk
Art galleries are closed to people over 21
Poets get their poems in the Top 20
There's jobs for everybody and nobody wants them
In back alleys everywhere teenage lovers are kissing in broad

In forgotten graveyards everywhere the dead will quietly bury the

You will tell me you love me
Tonight at noon

Saturday, January 19, 2008

Nature's Massacre

for the victims of the Pakistani earthquake, 8th Oct 2006.
Rest in Peace.

In the crushing embrace of the debris
I suffer
From a premature rigor mortis.
I try
But my vocal chords deny
The desperate appeal to respond.
Parched lips move
To maybe defy
The deafening silence.
Limbs strewn
Like tiny grotesque corpses
My struggle proceeds

Through the lattice
Of thatched roof and stones
I see
Moonlight stepping in
Into our mass graveyard.
My head throbs
With too much pressure to cope.
Amidst the nauseous delirium
I suck in
The stench of dried blood and decay.
And pray

Thursday, January 17, 2008


first poem i wrote after coming to Canada. a little over the top with the sappiness but oh well.

They say its the best place in the world
But it means nothing to me
It ain't my home, that ain't my beach
'Cuz special they can never be.

It lacks the things, the tiny joys,
Things that made me Whole,
Mi heart ain't here, it strays to where
I found peace in mi soul..


a highly emo poem i wrote when feeling detached and disconnected from evrything. Oh, another big reason was major bout of homesickness and nostalgia at the time too.

Wear my cloak
feel this Dark
this Void

Yes ,there's Light
Glowing dustmites
Apprehensive, Distant

I watch it
Indifferent, behind
My thick glass Wall

Misted over and over
By wet, shaky


This was was written by an extraordinarily talented friend of mine, Dorothy Quimora. It's by far the most amazing love poetry i've read in a very long time.

I am nothing but an ordinary stone statue

Whom you endlessly try to coat with melted pure gold

(I may not be completely tangible without you

For your arms protect me from all hazards I behold)

I am not quite blessed with anything but living breath

That I attempt to bring the best out of and survive

(Yet you are there to take away those objects I dread)

Even if often unrequited, for me you strive)

I am composed of flaws, and faults, and imperfections

Splashed with tears and decked with pain, enough of which to bleed

(A stereotype of the world and all its nations

Although you do know that, you never seem to take heed)

I am a speck of dust in the face of universe

What the skies refer to as a vernacular scene

(I do not understand, you chose to be doomed and cursed

It is I you love; me with which your life shall begin

Growing up.

i think nearly all poets have atleast once touched upon the subject of growing up. This one's about a friend and me. It's about trying to hang onto being a kid, and about letting go.

ur a stranger- emo and lame
but we're both stuck in a terrible game.
toughing it out; pretending we're fine
behind the curtains, we're hanging by a line
wound round our necks, it chokes but we
laugh and just talk about cookies
and pretzels, and silly things
we put aside our misgivings
and laugh it off, and act cool
ur the drama, im the fool
and once our silly rants are done,
turn back to reality, our masquerades begun
our smiles erased, return to hell
and crawl back inside our shell.


inspired by the thousands of people who turned up to run for the Terry Fox run. wish they'd show the enthusiasm for other issues. (excuse the bitterness.)

their lives are pivoted round blurs of
monotonous trends, monotony of friends,
the mall their
inflamer, their extinguisher,
and of all these
unsubstantial lives,
a single day spent running
for terry fox
fulfills their
debt to humanity.
miraculously makes them