The Art of Insignificance


There’s a night

That lies somewhere between awakening and


Yourself to imminence of vertigo

There’s that song

That plays itself in the premises of our heads

And chambers of our hearts

But just never seem to break through the lips

And give itself the soul of sound and life of melodies

There are lingering maladies

That unravels when we are too close to ourselves

When we see ourselves

Not in the light of day

But under the shadow of a moonlit sky

There is always that balcony

That becomes an abode to a body

Whose purpose is never quintessentially defined

Whose meanings are unknown

To its own devices

And it is when

The body loses its weight

The baggage of apprehensions, insecurities and fate

And becomes a piece

In the mosaic of what I shall call

The art of insignificance


There’s that knowledge in unlearning

That character in that movie

That suits us better

So much so that our identities become identical

And our details; insignificant

There’s that runaway traveller

Whose chances of ever coming across the same companions again

Becomes the story

That seems more relatable than

The ones that transpire during our happenings

There’s that joy spreading, self insulting rookie

Whose rawness is like a freedom we never had

Freedom of acceptance

So we feel happy for the one that could escape

From all these invisible shackles

There’s that night

The most insignificant of them all

Whose art and performance

Hits us like a bullet in the head

The stillness of the things that drag us all along

The shadows of the brisk nightlights

That shyly put some yellow and some red

To what could have been a dark affair

The emptiness of the streets

That exposes the trail of our own walking

And the travesty of beauty

That the world embraces in its consciousness

But seems to escape it

When the ignored presence of night

Paints that beauty in our dreams


I’m a man

A being of stature, purpose, character and identity

A bearer of values and responsibilities

But what a being

I see myself becoming into

When I’m disillusioned by nothingness

When I’m adopted by emptiness

Only to be orphaned to my deeply hidden wants

Or laid on the lap of desires

That I never thought ever existed beyond remorse and regrets

There’s a time

When all the noises seem inaudible

And the silence becomes a sermon we thrived for

It’s often in the art of insignificance

Where we find the significance of being insignificant

For if fortune is hidden in the most unexpected of treasures

Ask yourself

Where else would they hide it?



26 Letters

The language of 26 letters

Jitters that have knifed our tongues

Carved our throats

So we let our emotions float

Within the pool of a petite jukebox

How often do we find ourselves

Pushing against the wall

The wall

That gets nearer and nearer

As we move closer to realisation

Sensations of quickening perspirations

How many stories we have traversed

How many moments we have eloped

Succumbing to the whip of 26 letters

We have lost breaths

In portending the uncertain

How much have we spoken

In a language so broken

That cracks in our voices

Became the scars of someone’s heart

All our lives

We have clung to these 26 letters

Like I have clung to you

Picking the words that define me

Or this poetry

But I’ll falter

Much like humans from history to hope

As truth is like heartbeats

So close, so certain, so silent

That its rhythm goes unnoticed

And all we hail

These 26 letters

Opium that yields addiction of simplicity

Undermining the infinity

That language has overlooked

I’m a bad poet

You’re a genial patron

You may have your words

I’ll walk away with freedom


A Fame Unrest


When we finally found the humanness of the inhumanly
Reflected upon the light birthing in darkness
The curtains were drawn from nowhere
And a cancer dragged back to sea
An identity that defined our generation
Dragged silently
Through the foresight, the hindsight
Until everything was swept off the conscience
How well did the cancer know
Heavier the mortal is to drag
Deeper are the trails left behind.
All this time. Always.




I’m not as simple as your mornings turn out to be

Not as orderly placed at all the desired places

Or shining gay faces

As you find your essentials while running late for office

Honey, I unwind and uncurl;

I swirl and hop and fly

I let the leaves fall and never ask why

I seem perfectly imperfect as I slip into my sweats

And put my legs on the coffee table with my hair tied in a bun

As I circle the surface of my coffee cup with my fingertips

And hum the tunes that roomed within my head for long

This is where I belong

I’m a constant of your life

A wife within the void that separates your two worlds

I’m the same woman you leave

And the one you come back to

And everything that lies between your day and night

Is what I call breathing.