the only reason i find myself an artist, lately
is because of the lines and curves
i have erased of myself
for the world.

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a heartbreak to humans is what criticism is to literature.

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Questions i asked to Humanity.

i wish you could read the silence in
which i ache, do you feel the
hollowness where i sit and pray?

i wonder if this is where you leave us, drenched in misery.
i remember offering my secrets to you,
telling you about all the people i hurt.

i sought redemption in you, from my
own weapons. i wanted to be saved
from myself and the ghosts of people i broke.

what god are you to leave me before
my own damnation? are you even a god?— % &Anwers to the someone who worships me without my consent.

i read the silence in which you ache,
remember the syllables and the
pauses. i feel the hollowness where
you pray for i am made of it.

i don't know how to be a god, i have
always been a mere acceptance of
history, i don't know where to leave you.

monsters have never sought
redemption in me, no one with
weapons has entered my threshold.

i am not a god, what monster are you
to make me something i am not.

all of them you worship didn't ask to
be a god, i wish you sought salvation in
your weapons instead. in yourself instead.— % &

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the anatomy of melancholy.

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i wouldn't find the stapler,
or the tape or the ointment
when it was needed
while my papa would yell
'jab chahiye hota hai tab milta nahi,'

maybe love isn't found when we want it to be
it hides in our anger and insanity,

love would return easily
if we didn't lose our senses in its absence.

the more we shout
the more it squirms,

love is just a scared kid. a hidden fear.
a panic.

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वो हंसकर हवा से बातें कर लेती थी,
जैसे मानो हर खोए दिल का ठिकाना मालूम हो।

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love is measured by the emptiness after it's gone.

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