Multidimensional box of no shape

I remember people asking me
Who are in my home
And my cheap joke
Arrogant answers
Pushed them away
Cats, dogs, spiders, cockroaches
Those aren’t appropriate
I remember people asking me
What did I smoke
Whilst talking about our existence
Home doesn’t exist
Neither we do
Nothing matters
Elements to elements
Atoms to atoms
Molecules to molecules
We all are same
Shaped and adjusted well
In the box we don’t fit in
Leaving the unnecessary ideas
And our point of views behind
Home doesn’t exist
Our habits do
May habits doesn’t exist too
Some molecular magnetic field
We create to survive
It sucks us up
The left over dusts
Human dead skins
My ghosts from my past
Will take care of my sins

Who are in my home…
I am home.



My last name
Doesn’t exist
But in words
To find my root
Which doesn’t exist anymore anyway
But in moments
To find where I started
How I started
To measure the time
Time doesn’t exist too

A narcissist birthday poem

I wanted to write something
With my tired body
Closing eyes
And sleep head
Before the number changes
I couldn’t wait for it
I never did anyway
To ding the clock
Ring the bell
Its just too beautiful without me
Succumbed in new cold
Gray mists of midnight
Lonely street lights
Giving false hope to shivering street dogs
Midnight doesn’t wait for anyone
It comes and goes
Away from my cosy blanket
Freshly moved
From cupboard to my bed
I don’t fight too hard
To stay awake
Numbers will keep changing
It always do
Til we run out of it
But sleep is ultimate
In a way or another
I am closer to midnight.

-24, I did write something.

About a girl

My legs aren’t moving
The darkness under my blanket
Seems heaven
Sweating in the sun
I don’t want to let it’s light in
Not even a cigarette
In between my lips can undo
The fear

My legs aren’t moving
But the clock does
With it’s three legs
One smaller
Smaller enough to change
To bend
To destroy once morality
I have to hide it all
My shaky legs
Under my branded trousers
My racing heart
Inside a jacket
Made of skin
Of a dead species
And My words
With dead truth
I am scared of lies
I need to put on
To stay alive
Why do I need to?

The defenders

There I was
With the rusty iron fire escape
At my tiny New York City
In early morning cold
Having a smoke
Shivering half in cold
Half excitement

I have always watched it
In movies,
Through the rectangular screen
Of my cheap laptop
My kind of Netflix and chill
I have been in love with it
The rusty metal bars of freedom
Of hells kitchen
I have been dreaming about it
Full of kittens
I will save them all

Back home
Where there are no escape
Padlocks and bitter emotions
Buttered my vegan life
And sauteing
It tastes good
Back home
Where my little kitten died
I have searched for blood
Red as the rusty balcony
Cold as that morning
It straight went to a garbage dispenser
Things we do not need anymore
Like deadbodies, honest souls
Lost hope
Nothing left but a smell
Forcing me to close it
The door of hells kitchen
My kitten must be safe
Rotting peacefully
Somewhere down there
Or here

10 percent and draining

I think I am getting old too
Like he said he was
I can see it in my pace
No rush to go home
Watching an old guy
Flying a miniature monument
Next to the real one
I have been there before
With my friends
Young souls
We were too late
To find out an entrance
Or exit
Maybe late is a metaphor
For now
To destroy it
Rusty bones
Lack of irons
I am too old to alter that
Maybe I should settle
Building a monument of dreams
Or at least like one of those
With Replicated reality
Till the batteries are dead

What does my tattoo mean?

I was holding my brother’s hand
To be precise
Around this time
Years ago
He was lying
The very last time I cried
Then my mother sent me away
From him

I will sleep today
Like I did
Years ago
And wake up
He wouldn’t be here
Since then
He isn’t ever here

I lied to a friend
Couple of days ago
He wanted to go on a trip
With me for few days
I wanted to return early
Making excuses
Tomorrow is my day
I don’t wanna see anyone
Waking up next to me
Hugging or talking

Just the tattoo
On my left arm
My brother’s paw print
The paw I was holding
The very last attachment
I ever had
With a life
Before it was gone

It’s getting dark here
Our canvas printed photo
Is barely visible
I am barely visible
Double locking my doors
My brother would have scratched it
My doors
If he was here
Just to make sure I was okay
I was here
Darkness never bothered us

Last few years
He couldn’t even see properly
His beautiful black eyeballs
Turned gray
And then white
Like night,
Turns into morning

Like tomorrow


Someone Burned the goddess
Her Plastic hair
Polyester saree
And body made of clay

A woman was worshipping
Holding an oil lamp
My mum cursed her
“What was she doing there
The Goddess isn’t alive yet”

Some human
From some particular class
Will read some particular texts
To set life in that clay model
In plastic hair

Few meters away
The lady who accidentally set fire
On the Goddess
Yet to get life
Her husband is beating her
Cursing her

The goddess got burned
And her Plastic hair
Cheap polyester Saree
Everyone ran
Towards the pandal
Passing the perpetrator
Crossing her house
Leaving her
With the punishment she deserved
For worshipping a goddess
Not alive yet

And will never be.

Paradise Lost

Have I ever mentioned
That I hate Los Angeles
The city of Angels
Where the Sun shine bright
Red Orange like hell

I always believed
Sun is our Morningstar
The Creator of life

Have I ever mentioned
I hate that beautiful hell
It has everything
None can find one single thing
Lacking the City of Angels

Just no wings
Lucifer lost it
Sometimes ago
Maybe a long time ago
And all the keepers
Of its feathers
Are almost gone too
Lost the war

God needed a place
To make hell


I don’t know how does it feel
In reality
In dreams
It felt beautiful
I stopped there,
Thinking of some better word
Foreign and more appropriate

Marrying someone
Someone who doesn’t understand you
I could feel I had to let him go

I saw him holding me
In a rooftop doesn’t belong to us
He, Didn’t understand why I do
What I do
He, leaving me
Giving space
With the look in his eyes
“I will be waiting
Of the roof and your high life”

I stopped there
Thinking of some better word
Foreign and more appropriate
But in his eyes,
“Beautiful” would do
Or no words

My mum woke me up,
With bed tea
Very British
And I lost my stairs
Way down
Where he is waiting
With the look in his eyes
-“I am yours”