There is only
One place
Where I can
Fnd myself
Neither here, nor in outer space
I hop
In the gardens of my thoughts
A gust of wind
Rushes in my face
I grab it in my fist
I give it a little bounce
I fly into the air
I tumble and
Fall back on the ground
I broke no bones
Here, you just don’t have to care
Things here are beautiful
Although far from real
You can swim in the air
On water you can run
But nothing hurts more
Than realizing this is
Just my imagination.



Why does the world go round and round?
Why do people act like they care but then let you down?
Why do we pretend to be free, and act like we’re normal,
Run away from all our problems and hide behind fake morals?
Why do the rich get richer from the hands of the poor?
Why do we bow down like slaves under the shadows of the cruel?
Why do people boast about their friend named Howard,
When the streets are full of liars and cowards?
Why do men play games to get in each other’s minds?
Why do we regret what we’ve done, and the things we’ve left behind?
Is everything connected, like the Circle of Fifths?
Or are we all controlled by a solitary power, like the One Ring?

Some day, things are bound to make sense.


The scar on his face
The steadiness of his pace
He didn’t have to hide it
Rather beam it with pride
A scar which was born
Born while leashing probably
A hundred more scars
Not on body of his own
Instead upon her
Whom he hadn’t even known
The world is indeed a subtle place
Just like that vase
Which carries flowers with thorns
Beautiful and remarkable at a glance
But a closer look reveals
The dense and crafty things
Hitherto he was unaware
And it finally dawned upon him
He fought for no one person that day
But for humanitarian at large
It was a battle
Selfless and conclusive

The Holy Wars

A young man stands on the edge of the world
Patient and ready, waiting to be heard.

All his children searching for a place to hide
Scattered all around, soothing and nursing their pride.

The young man looks as chaos arises,
Vexed and indignant, he shamefully sighs.

“Has anyone in this land courage to look me in my eyes?
Full of greed and spite, though you will immorally deny.

You’ve gone adrift of your ways and you’ve lost your minds.
You’ve ruined your lives over the passage of time.

You’ve heard of this man named God and pretend to love his name,
Fight over moulded religions and beliefs and bicker in vain.

I know what I’ve seen and I know what I’ve done,
I’ve travelled the world, I am his only son.

Let us clear our minds, our souls and our thoughts,
Remind us all of the battles we have fought.

For though the world claims to have progressed towards peace,
A man kills another just for tucking into beef.

Let us pledge to never repeat these crimes,
Though the damage done, will only heal over time.”

I’ll Be Gone

I should warn you I’ll be gone
No more singing along
How harsh it may sound
We were solid, we were bound
You were high or I was low
Supported each other, you’d know
But everything happens for the best
The bullet landing on my chest
Hearts breaking into two
Wishing one more minute of you
The armor of love didn’t work
We were destined to get the jerk
Remember how I peeked from the back
At you dancing on the track

But I should warn you I’ll be gone


Link to the first part of this story, Catalyst. This can be read as a separate story, but I’ll suggest you start with that one.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Are you alright, lad?” Asked Fred, with genuine concern.
“Eh, he’ll be fine. First day of prison, what else do ya expect?” Grunted Sal.

You make your own destiny, your own fate, luck, or whatever you believe in. Or so the saying goes. He made his. He chose to tell the truth, when he could have so easily lied.
He chose to save an innocent man’s life.
He chose to live a life without guilt.
He chose to condemn himself to a life in prison.

Cell 12B, a 6×8 feet prison cell, with the basic necessities required for human survival, was to be his home for the next twenty two years.
Cell 12B, with dull, grey, cemented walls, three bunk beds, one tarnished mirror and one closet.
Salvatore Treville and Freddie Peterson his new cellmates.

“I’m Fred, but the lads around here call me Freddie. This big ol’ piece of junk here, is Sal. Funny case, his. His mam’s French but he was born and raised in Northern Ireland. Y’could say he gets the worst of both sides. Enough about us, you haven’t uttered a word since you got here. What’s your name, guv?”

But are we really in control of the choices that we make? Or ourselves? Some say our choices are already set, in place, aligned with the movements of the universe. We don’t control our choices. We just get to make them.

“Harold. My name is Harold Law, and this is the longest day of my life.”

Yes, I Do Cry

I get on the bed,
Sob through the night.
Just to force it out of my head,
Vile memories
Flashing past my sight.
My legs crossed
And head bowed,
Dizzy and torpid
I sit whimpering.
My mind lightens,
Expelling out the load.
Waiting for the sun
And the freshness it’ll bring.
Sometimes I’m tired,
I too feel low.
Yes, I do cry.
Because I want to free myself,
Free myself from the woe.