Burning Bridges

A man levitating between two cliffs
https://www.pexels.com/photo/architecture-business-city-outdoors-92928/ https://www.pexels.com/photo/adventure-cliff-lake-mountains-6744/

Bridges forged with birth
stand not far from the earth.
They are bridges made of wood
and if lit they burn as they should.

Bridges raised for the time of the day
never last after the sun goes astray.
They are bridges made of brick
and if pushed, are gone quick.

Bridges built with time
stand the test that it chimes.
They are bridges made of metal
and they stand on, truly eternal.

Then there are the bridges made as gifts
which stand over the deepest of rifts.
From afar, they seem to be made of gold,
Halfway, too late, we find that it is straw and mould.

We burn bridges with every turn we take
to run away from the monsters we make.

Often we set fire to our bridges to hide from our monsters.
The friends who stand by us burn our bridges
and give us the hope that they never find us.

But it is too late when we realise that
The monsters were our friends
and our friends, the monsters.


It’s been three years since I’ve started blogging, and well, I guess it was worth it. This also counts as my 100TH post. Something truly feels special about such a round number 🙂

What’s The Time?

For the best time of forty years, they had stuck together.
They shared laughs, tears, thoughts, and fears.

But not too soon, one had to part ways
and yet his chair always held his place.

For another decade, they stood side by side
Shared their fears and shoulders while they cried.

Alas, time is a ruthless overlord but in a friend’s guise:
for soon enough the next one had experienced demise.

Continue reading What’s The Time?

Prints on the Sands of Time

A hand pressing on sand

We have all heard that when God did create:
On our palms, was inscribed our fate.

I do believe


We know of the ink on the palms of the writer
Felt the sweat shaking hands with the hard worker
Seen blood dripping from the fists of our soldiers
Heard about the mud and dirt, caked inside the farmers’

The mothers’ palm has tears wiped away from her child’s cheek
While the pain of which the fathers’ fingers would never speak
Stifled with a single finger – secrets have lived on the sister’s lips
With nothing but pride, the brother fights his imaginary ships

The rubber glove’s stench is all that is left on a seasoned surgeon
The baker has the feel of flour that comes from his apron
The barber owns the soap meant for the one who walks clean-shaven
The teacher brushes off the chalk as she walks away from her haven

The mechanic possesses the slick of the oil which does stain
The chemicals in the film are the photographer’s frame
Salt-water is held long after the fishers return from their domain;
And the feel of a loved one, always in memory will remain.

I could go on and on about what we love leaving its mark
that is part of our life – our very own creative spark.

We have all heard that when God did create
On our palms, was inscribed our fate
I do believe that our blueprints may already be in place
Yet our place isn’t defined by the lines within a five-finger space

For after all: it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be.


A 270-word poem, and here’s to wishing my blog on its second year alive 🙂 Not exactly its birthday, but actually its birth week. While this post does have many references to stereotypical gender roles, I believe that it is up to each of us to pick our battles and stand for what we believe in. If you believe that your roles and responsibilities aren’t defined by who you are, but rather what you can do, then you live up to the belief that I wanted the poem to express and have mentioned in the last few lines.

Insulated to Insults

Have you ever felt alone a room with a crowd when you tried to blend?
Alone in a room crowded with people who you call as friends
and realised that so long all their love and fun was but pretend.

Continue reading Insulated to Insults

Missing Me?

Photo prompt provided by : https://pixabay.com/en/light-paint-leather-boot-boot-shoe-316067/

There are his shoes. So where is he?
I ponder as I tie the laces, tighter than necessary.
But I should not wonder where he would be.
Gone on to where shoes are not needed – my tears come easy.

Continue reading Missing Me?

The Hero, The Beauty & The Beast

Providing our photo prompt this week is Sonya, author of the blog, “Only 100 Words.” Thank you Sonya!

With his fingers, he gently caressed her smooth, soft skin.
They were almost cutting through the surface so thin.
He felt blessed. He was at bliss.
Any moment now, he would ask the question.

As he almost did do the honour,
his mind had doubts in the harbour.
He felt queasy. He was uneasy.
From that moment, he was subject to torture.

As commanded by the laws of nature,
from his beauty, a beast did appear.
He felt mocked. He was shocked.

The beast sank into his beauty
and left him no place to be.
He felt sick. He was sick.
The beast had destroyed him utterly.

Continue reading The Hero, The Beauty & The Beast

Manufacturing Defect

Day 4:
Theme: Imperfection,
Style: Limerick,
Device: Enjambment

The truth be said, there is only one
who can be a model for perfection.
I believe that would be nobody
which will be accepted by everybody
who is a part of this creation.

Nobody is indeed perfect
something that we need to accept.
But then what is the meaning
of perfection – I find it exasperating
that no one can find its value on the market.

How can the value be defined? It is
something that can’t be
touched with a kiss.
Perfection can be defined in different
ways: To each their own statement.
After all no matter the name, a rose is a rose.

But as I said a few lines ago – isn’t perfection
under nobody’s possession?
Well, then who is this person?
And how is this quality in their arson?
Right now I have found an answer to this question.

You and I are the nobodies that the world has seen –
we are the perfections that have been
present right from the moment of existence
to now, where we are our own sustenance.

Be you. Be unique. Be perfect. Be your own king or queen.

Doctor Moon

Day 3:
Theme: Skin,
Style: Prose Poetry,
Device: Internal Rhyme

The moon felt sad about his bad face
and asked the sun to share one of her rays.
Soon it grew to be in a new phase
And light filled its quiet rocky surface.

The little boy could never smile because he always thought that he was the ugliest person to live. He thought none wanted to be close as he was hideous and unattractive. He had often asked the doctor to help him out, and once the doctor had consented. Exchanging the pills for a wad of cash, to his home in excitement, he did dash.

Yet, the gorgeous moon was far from joyous
A dark mark stayed on the Earth, which was mysterious.
It projected him into guilt more than he expected
and created a plan to work to help the dejected.

On his way he saw the homeless, begging for food and money. But he noticed that they neither had shelter or anything to call cosy. This brought tears to his eyes, as he felt him despise for himself. He chalked up a plan and walked up to the clinic again.

The moon bounced the light to the provinces that were dim
So those in the shadow were thankful to him.
He felt joy that made him melt, in which he started to swim
He knew he should do more according to his prayer hymn.

The boy went back to the clinic and traded his money back for the graded pills. He got back to the sector of the poor and gave out the money, becoming a donor. He found joy, by spreading it. A pleasure he had been unaware of so far. He made the decision to take the action forward as he knew the God of this creation would want him to.

The moon soon disappeared to become new
and about where it went no one knew.
Till he eclipsed the sun, he did grew
and the solar power did cry and raise hue.

The power of the moon was thus made known
The sun cowered and was covered by the moon which shone
His influence on the earth’s waves and ways are stronger
It is the moon that is, to the earth, closer
much like the boy who, as a better doctor became renown.

Be Positive

Day 2:
Theme: Gift,
Style: Acrostic,
Device: Simile

Because it is the only way possible to survive
Each thought of mine is devoted to her to revive.

Passing on the fluid of life from my body to hers
Occasionally stopping, to check if she is better or worse.
She’s my only love, just as each day has only one night.
I want us together like the two eyes that share the same sight
To make sure we are bonded without separation
I give her the gift of life, without any deliberation.
Venting out my blood to her to save her during her complication
Every last bit of my B positive blood is ready for the donation.

High-koo

Day 1:
Theme: Screen,
Style: Haiku,
Device: Alliteration

a good godly glass,
the red rain, rising roof high,
have intel inside