The air is wild with leaves, with poems and feelings


“That’s not what I meant!” I sigh as I go through the comment section.  The mixed responses make me wonder how it’s possible for people to misunderstand a poem.

Outside the rain conjures a sweet pattern along the rustic pavement. I watch as the droplets fall from a confident sky and wonder if words I write convey emotion properly.

It is then that I recall the wisdom of a much loved and dear friend. Poetry is like art. Everybody has their own interpretation and that’s all right.

I tend to write a lot of love poems. It’s what I do. But a very few people know that my poems are actually based on my life! Each poem recounts a different story from a different time and era.

For example, October: When Poets Dream, Lament and Sing speaks of the time when I was besotted by a man who loved nobody but himself. Of course, I had no idea at the time. The poem speaks about pain and invisible scars.

Do I like it when people misinterpret a poem? To be honest, not a bit! But then, even I have misunderstood other people’s work from time to time.

But oh, when a poem strikes a chord! Now that is the most beautiful feeling in the entire world. A few months ago I wrote a confessional poem that resonated with every person who read and commented on it.

Twenty-three hit me like a hammer/ drove me over the edge/I slept with danger and flirted with the idea of death. Dark Origin is one of the most personal poems I have ever written.

I am going to be very honest. I was terrified! The moment I hit the publish button I thought to myself. “What have I done?” But when the responses started coming in, I felt relieved! I was happy that I shared the most intimate part of my life with people whom I wrote poetry alongside with.

I use to become annoyed when a poem was misunderstood. But no more. When has the moon ever complained for being both light and dark?


Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for Moonlight Musings: The Interactive Edition @ Poets United

The Serene Philosophy Of The Early Morn’ Is Steadying

Hope is a strawberry plucked in the barely light of morning and while no words could do justice to describe the void that was felt, she managed a smile and resumed her daily chores.

“I just wish there was some way I could come and visit you; I mean it’s been nearly two years since the last time we saw each other,” Sanaya spoke with a fervent sigh while washing the dishes during one late afternoon.

“It’s just a matter of few days. Any news on the job front?” Sarah smiled and finally managed to untangle her earphones.

“Not yet but I am keeping my fingers crossed! Did you happen to see the new movie that’s making waves at the box office?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world! Get this, a photon is going through airport security, the TSA agent asks if he has any luggage…”

Sanaya after putting aside the dishes goes deep into contemplation and then suddenly yells, “No, I am traveling light,” which resulted into fits of laughter on both ends.

The days turned into months until July finally poked its head out and became the bearer of good news.

“I still can’t believe it!” Sanaya jumped up and down accidentally spilling some coffee on her dress, the feeling of excitement and relief was palpable which replaced woe and poured freely into her verse. 

Today I leave home.  I leave a place that has been my childhood cocoon. I have unlocked the door to new beginnings.


Photo credits: Olesia Buyar, Unsplash

Story birthed from the poem Epistle To My Future Self ~

Posted on Pantry of Prose @ Poets United

Hostage In Her Own Mind

We call her the Emma Bruegel Project; she’s been in our care ever since her grandmother left her at the doorstep. She was twelve and yet there was a maturity around her that couldn’t be explained.

“But doctor, surely there is no reason for us to keep her here any longer,” the nurse eyed the auburn-haired girl with pity and remorse.

“Don’t be fooled by her calm and poised demeanor she is host to several fears and a phobia known to us as Agoraphobia.” It is a fear of places or situations that you can’t escape from. 

“But… but … she doesn’t seem the way you describe at all!” The nurse shaking her head in bewilderment looked at Emma as she continued to draw and hum to herself.

Both the doctor and nurse left as twilight stole the colour from day, Emma glanced up from her drawing, a satisfied and smug smile painted on her aristocratic features.

“My friends abhor this condition that I have acquired, or is this a facade that I with time have simply embraced and mastered? Such fools are they for they don’t know I fear what I am capable of and doing.”

Outside the wind rattled the windows as her heart shows her memories of years long gone. Memories of her aunt and uncle visiting for the Summer,

“Emma won’t you join us for brunch dear?” Her aunt an elderly and kind lady who was oblivious to the lecherous stares that her husband would give to the child.

Just then a knock sounded at the door and Emma was brought thundering back to present day reality. Her eyes welled up at the possibility of someone seeing her in this state so she pulled a silken sheet over her head.

The nurse entered the room with necessary dosage of pills unaware that she was hostage in her own mind.


Photo credits: Pinterest

Based on the poem Prologue – The Emma Bruegel Project

For Telling Tales With Magaly Phobias and Fears 🙂

Posted for ‘Pantry of Prose’ @ Poets United

Somewhere along the way

Lust is a chocolate bar made with cocoa powder, coconut oil, honey, and vanilla that melts upon the tongue and deprives one of better sense and judgment.

Sometimes I wonder how morose the lyrics would be if one were to transform this one-sided love story into a song.  You tortured me in the most caring of ways, convinced me of loyalty when in truth everything even remotely related was a lie, a means of duping my fragile heart — in reality you are lipstick smear, a travesty and a stain.

I am done blaming myself, I’d rather live in the present than wallow in waters of the past. You are the chapter I don’t regret writing for it taught me to distinguish and appreciate love for what it truly was.

Between now and then a lot has changed, or should I say matured as I breathe in the mild perfume of March. I am peaceful in my journey toward self-discovery and accomplishment of goals.  It’s close to Spring and yet the weather here is so unbearably cold and raging that the idea of tulip buds blooming is near to impossible.

Years from now I shall look back and laugh, I’d be telling my grandchildren stories of how I met their grandfather. Maturity is accepting the person you once were before running into wisdom somewhere along the way.



Photo credits: Pinterest

Inspired by the poem “Love poem to cover my bases.”

Posted for Pantry of Prose @ Poets United

The Dupe Diaries

She chewed on blood red fingernails oblivious to how bitter was wind; her heart pounding as she placed a bouquet of lilies upon the grave. She knew no one would pass here due to rain and rolling mist. Her pretty face went pale as marble over tombstone as she heard a familiar voice cackling from underneath the ground.

“How dare you stand here after what you did! Haven’t you troubled me enough for a hundred years!”

Olivia gasped as a hand emerged from out of the grave clutching her throat and struggled to break free; the hem of her black dress soiled with filth and splashes of rain. Her lips trembled with fright as a handful of memories flashed before her eyes.

“No you don’t understand I need exactly four kilograms of cabbage, two sacks of potatoes and one bag of carrots,” Olivia sighed in exasperation as the salesman stared at her as though she was from a different planet.

“Miss, how many times do I have to explain! We don’t sell groceries to people like you!” She watched as he walked away from her in disgust and failed to understand why. She recalled how her mother used to shop, her pretty eyes and winsome smile as she charmed salesman after salesman into letting her browse to her heart’s content. She went home and threw herself down on the bed, hiding her face in the pillow. The phone rang thrice before she finally decided to pick up.

“Hi! I have been trying to call you all day! Where were you?” Olivia cringed at the sound of her neighbor’s voice.

She and Josh had been friends since childhood. She remembered how he used to defend her while all the kids made fun of her and called her a freak. At that time it used to bother her what people thought but now she wasn’t sure. It made no sense to fret over something that couldn’t be changed. For instance, her oval face and unruly black hair that stood out at odd ends. She wasn’t exactly a people person and shied away from boisterous crowds. She was different than the rest and there truly wasn’t another person alive on earth who cared enough to appreciate her. Except, Josh.

Olivia snapped out of her reverie as the cruel voice continued and spat out insults. “Enough! I don’t care whether you believe me or not! It wasn’t my fault, Josh!” At that moment the atmosphere grew dim and skies threatened to swallow what was left of the earth.

“Oh really!” He raised his head out of the grave and scowled. She couldn’t believe he could hold a grudge over something so insignificant.

“Alright, fine! I am sorry for ruining your chances with Aaron. But I couldn’t see how you would compete against my blasting charm.” She winked as he frowned and finally laid back inside the grave to rest.

Graveyard scented with ominous
clouds, scare passersby as spirits
and ghouls rise to join the living.


Photo credits: WallpaperUP

Posted for ‘Beautiful Freaks Fest’ @ MG’s blog party

Of Madness and Muse

She counts words and makes vow to the moon and stars. She cares not for frivolous remarks and shuns reluctance and negativity that dares to cross her path. “You see they don’t understand what writing means to me.” Her dark brown hair fell down in a tangled mess on her face as she struggled with her earphones. “But why even bother to listen? You know they don’t feel the same way as you.” Sanaya burst out in a fit of giggles as her best friend mimicked possibly every brainless creature on earth who had no appreciation for Literature.

I sometimes wonder what world 
would be, without words kissing 
destruction and pain awry.

Sanaya and Sarah had been best friends for nearly three years. There wasn’t a single thing that the two of them didn’t know about each other. Sarah sniggered, “You must have been a vampire in another life. I envy your freakish ability to write in wee hours of the morning.” Sanaya smiled and finally managed to untangle her earphones. “Well, it’s kind of habitual I suppose. You should have heard my neighbor’s response. I am pretty sure you would have sucked the life out of him!”

I have seen prejudice roll its eyes,
mumbling words, that can’t seep 
into its blood and hollow chest. 

If there was one thing that boiled Sanaya’s blood was sarcasm. It was as though someone had thrown garlic and shallot into broccoli cheese soup. “You shouldn’t listen to them,” she went on. “Now, if anyone says horrid things about writing poetry, tell them its not everyone’s cup of tea. Better yet lets throw a steaming mug at them!” Sanaya flashed a wicked grin as she pictured her light grey mug thrown at her neighbour and the ludicrous expression that would follow suit.

Her fingers typed away as she spoke, hours flying until the sun came out. She admitted being a perfectionist and cringed at the thought of writing something that didn’t quite fit. Perhaps her blood was made of lyrical odes and ballads. The next day she woke past noon and jumped out of bed.

Sultry noon peeks in chuckling at 
hours that were waiting to dance,
until they rattled her brain.


Photo credits: Pinterest

Posted for ‘Beautiful Freaks Fest’ @ MG’s blog party