Metamorphosis

The larva eats like mad 

and withdraws itself 

into a cocoon.

Then it broods.

Each step guides

Every action or 

inaction towards a 

becoming.

Each bite coding a color.

Each utterance 

defining a flap. 

The intent is decided, 

noise is removed, 

action is streamlined.

and when it's time-

The wings are 

fluttered and boom-

the first flight. 

The butterfly must 

become a butterfly.

Not by chance.

Not by miracle. 

But by outgrowing 

a noun it is to 

Become an attribute.

The butterflyness 

of it from every breath 

till a culmination-

The flight wasn't in

The wings.

It was in the intent.

Being Reduced to a Poem

Deep down I always

wanted to be a poem,

but no one wrote for me.

So I took things

in my own hands.

And the more I wrote

about myself,

the more of me

began to disappear.

It felt like admiring

my own skin-

then peeling it off,

layer by layer,

until I stood

on the carcass

of what I once was.

A strange spectacle-

this naked admiration

and quiet disgust,

coexisting without conflict.

I kept writing more.

Not to be understood,

but to see

how much of me

could be translated

before nothing remained.

And now, what’s left

doesn’t resemble a 

person-

Just lines. Fragments.

A voice that sounds 

like me but isn’t.

Maybe this is what

becoming a poem means.

Not being written,

but being reduced

to something that can 

only be read.

Existential Incarnation

It's sad that you don't exist. 

It's sad that I want to 

believe in your existence, 

but there aren't any hints. 

It's sad that innumerable 

people believe in you

despite wrong fallacies. 

And it's utterly sad that 

faith hasn't moved any 

mountains yet. 

It's sad we humans don't 

learn from history, 

and it's sad that we are 

Logical beings but aren't 

rational. 

It's sad we are doomed 

in our own heads. 

Oh, it's sad, we've been 

incarcerated this way.

But for what crimes? 

We demand a fair trial. 

Give us a battlefield outside 

our heads and see. 

See our defiance turn

into something holy.

See our souls dip in

glitter and outshine 

your immortality.

See us grow wings 

and fly away to offer 

you a spectacle that 

can compel our

Emancipation and 

your redemption.

Goldfish

Let us become parrots 

and feed on cashews 

of my nana's farm. 

Let us become the last 

sunshine of your village 

and kiss the same warmth 

on my coastline. 

We could become the 

small feet of our own 

childhood and run across 

every divide there is. 

Perhaps we can become 

blasphemous gods of 

two religions and have an

Illicit juicy affair. 

How about a validation 

machine for old men 

with daddy issues?

Maybe then, they can 

stop starting a war in 

their free time. 

I know you are somewhere 

and I am elsewhere, 

but let us pretend that we 

are two goldfishes in a bowl.

That goldfishes have a 

short memory and 

everytime we bump into 

each other-

The bubble we live in 

becomes a new illusion

to live by happily.

Embarassed out of Existence

This steady warmth 

that embraces quietly.

Just a softness

you refuse to name.

The caress that's not

a longing yet.

A longer pause in

a conversation.

A sentence that almost

says too much-

A silence that you hope 

this person would 

eventually comprehend.

Hidden in hints,

Sarcastically weaved

sentences and carefully 

dropped emojis-

A cautious glance not

ready to be caught.

An ambiguous distance 

that isn't ready to 

take chances--

But one day,

when this person asks 

about it upfront-

You feel exposed.

It's like a secret being 

dragged out in the open

before you barely 

admitted it to yourself-

So you laugh it off

and go into denial.

You're offended in a

weird way? or 

You feel guilty about 

the same?

You aren't ready for 

the mirror that's held

infront of you, are you?

Maybe you're afraid of

naming it.

Naming something 

makes it real.

And real things can be 

refused-

You wonder if fear of

rejection is acting up again.

Days pass. The hints stop.

The pauses shrink.

The softness dries up

as you retreat into yourself.

Somewhere between 

pride and fear,

A small unnamed love

dies quietly.

What could have grown

into a story is filed away as 

misunderstanding.

Not rejected,

Never confessed-

Just embarrassed

out of existence.

Citizenship

A woman in 20s

wraps her face

in a white sari because 

her husband died,

wipes out the tears,

and decides

to lead a life-

happy or sad,

doesn’t matter.

A kid limps

across a street

because a doctor

injected a wrong medicine.

No one cursed the doctor

or took the matter

to higher authorities.

He just accepted life.

Young men ride 

their bikes into a big 

potholes.

Entire locality drops

dead because 

Drinking water 

was contaminated.

It was all there fault.

This is life in its 

rawest sense-

death is routine,

suffering is private.

They adjust.

They normalize.

They move on.

They don’t 

Demand better.

Why should they?

When endurance is 

sold as national character

and jingoism is more

important than food

in the plate-

Compliant acceptance 

becomes a prerequisite 

for Citizenship.

We Almost Existed

The instances we didn't 

talk enough, and the way 

we haven't yet touched

each other.

The fact that our breaths 

haven't intermingled yet, 

and this place beside me

that already screams your 

absent presence-

A certain smell shall always 

reek of the forever distance 

between us and my un-kissed 

lips are gonna be forever 

hesitant to say your 

name aloud.

And the fact that we'll 

never meet and how I would 

be condemned to carry a 

certain silence in your shape-

Perhaps, I'm gonna press 

my ear against that 'quiet' 

every day, to hear,

every unanswered whisper 

that's gonna remind me-

"How we almost existed."